Anthology I by Anthology

ANTHO L O G Y

A NT HO LOG Y Critical and creative writing by students of BA English Literature and BA Creative Writing, Critical and of creative writing by students of 2015/16 The Cass School Art Architecture & Design BA English Literature and BA Creative Writing, Theby Cass School of Art Architecture & Visual DesignCommunication, 2015/16 Designed students from Impression studio, The Cass School of Art Architecture & Design 2016/17

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A N T H O L OGY

ANT HO LO G Y

Critical and creative writing by students of BA English Literature and BA Creative Writing, The Cass School of Art Architecture & Design 2015/16

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A N T H O L OGY

ANT HO LO G Y

Critical and creative writing by students of BA English Literature and BA Creative Writing, The Cass School of Art Architecture & Design 2015/16

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Anthology: A collection of critical and creative writing by BA English Literature & BA Creative Writing students at The Cass School of Art, Architecture & Design 2015/16

Published by Sir John Cass School of Art, Architecture and Design London Metropolitan University Old Castle Street London E1 7NT thecass.com

Designed by students of Impression Studio, Visual Communication, The Cass School of Art Architecture & Design 2016/17 @studio.impression

Lead designer Maria Klimko Cover design and illustration by Finn Kidd Other illustrations by Billy Klofta, John Sinha, Shalini Nandakumar, Ee Zin Teh, Jubedah Akther and Maria Klimko

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

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Anthology: A collection of critical and creative writing by BA English Literature & BA Creative Writing students at The Cass School of Art, Architecture & Design 2015/16

Published by Sir John Cass School of Art, Architecture and Design London Metropolitan University Old Castle Street London E1 7NT thecass.com

Designed by students of Impression Studio, Visual Communication, The Cass School of Art Architecture & Design 2016/17 @studio.impression

Lead designer Maria Klimko Cover design and illustration by Finn Kidd Other illustrations by Billy Klofta, John Sinha, Shalini Nandakumar, Ee Zin Teh, Jubedah Akther and Maria Klimko

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CONT ENTS

C ON TEN TS

Foreword by Andrew Stone v Introduction by Trevor Norris and Angharad Lewis vi

From Life Writing to Fiction

Lost in Translation by Alessia Cacaveri 2 Death, Charles and I by Irina Jauhiainen 9 An Acid Romance by Jack Houston 16 Home by Nishita Patel 27

literary london

Sketches by Boz by Kashta Wallace Daniel Defoe: publishing and dissent by Chris Rudd Putney Heath by Jack Houston Faster Than Time. The Story of A Train, A Crystal Palace and A Daring Girl by Alessia Cacaveri Walkies by Jack Houston The Teen Epic of Absolute Beginners by Kashta Wallace Patrick Hamilton’s Interwar London by Kayleigh Kember

38 42 46

52 59 66 72

the novel and the contemporary world Race and Gender in Toni Morrison’s ‘A Mercy’ by Hannah Ponting

52 59 66 72

the novel and the contemporary world 80

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Race and Gender in Toni Morrison’s ‘A Mercy’ by Hannah Ponting

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CONT ENTS

C ON TEN TS

Foreword by Andrew Stone v Introduction by Trevor Norris and Angharad Lewis vi

From Life Writing to Fiction

Lost in Translation by Alessia Cacaveri 2 Death, Charles and I by Irina Jauhiainen 9 An Acid Romance by Jack Houston 16 Home by Nishita Patel 27

literary london

38 42 46

52 59 66 72

the novel and the contemporary world Race and Gender in Toni Morrison’s ‘A Mercy’ by Hannah Ponting

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the novel and the contemporary world 80

Race and Gender in Toni Morrison’s ‘A Mercy’ by Hannah Ponting

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book print hypertext

Aarseth’s Ergodic Theory by Kayleigh Kember 90 OuLiPo, Workshop of Potential Literature by Lorraine Cappoccia 98

contemporary poetry: theory and practice

Myth in the Poetry of Ted Hughes by Anser Shah 108 Poetry for School by Jack Houston 114 Six Poems by Krysta Lee Quejada Frost 125

existentialism in writing

Rilke and the outcasts of ‘Malte Laurids Brigge’ by Agnieszka Klimek 140 Tolstoy, Camus and Death by Irina Jauhiainen 146

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book print hypertext

Aarseth’s Ergodic Theory by Kayleigh Kember 90 OuLiPo, Workshop of Potential Literature by Lorraine Cappoccia 98

contemporary poetry: theory and practice

Myth in the Poetry of Ted Hughes by Anser Shah 108 Poetry for School by Jack Houston 114 Six Poems by Krysta Lee Quejada Frost 125

existentialism in writing

Rilke and the outcasts of ‘Malte Laurids Brigge’ by Agnieszka Klimek 140 Tolstoy, Camus and Death by Irina Jauhiainen 146

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FOR EWO RD

FO REWO R D

Some of the best projects arise out of unexpected circumstances and once there, seem obvious and immediate in their opportunity. This anthology is one of those. The circumstance of the English Literature & Creative Writing courses joining The Cass this year, of Trevor Norris speculating on possible collaboration or new associations, and of the opportunity of this being shared by Angharad Lewis and Susanna Edwards, provided the ground for students to collaborate in producing the content, design and publication of this book and I hope many more in the future. This is the students’ work and it is a rich example of what we seek to enable students and graduates to achieve at The Cass. A core part of being a student is the exposure to new ideas and different approaches and the ability to respond critically and creatively to those. For them to achieve excellence in their field but also to have the awareness to seize opportunities, to work across disciplines and to produce something extraordinary. They have done this and I would like to congratulate all the students involved on working so successfully, on producing something of quality and craft that harnesses the discrete skills of different disciplines in a single volume.

Andrew Stone | Head of School The Sir John Cass School of Art, Architecture and Design

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FOR EWO RD

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Andrew Stone | Head of School The Sir John Cass School of Art, Architecture and Design

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INT RODUCTIO N

IN TRO DU C TI O N

Working with staff and student writers from the English Literature & Creative Writing courses in The Cass has been an enlightening experience for the students in Visual Communication’s Impression studio. Firstly, it was an opportunity to engage in a meaningful way with some excellent writing on a range of subjects and from diverse viewpoints. This opened up fascinating paths of thought to the students. All our work in Impression studio this year has been rooted in research, and working intimately with the anthology texts has led students to explore subjects from existentialism, to the early novel, to psycho-geography and experimental writing techniques. It has been a real privilege for myself and the students to give visual and tangible printed form to this collection of writing. The project has helped the graphic designers and illustrators of Impression studio blossom as practitioners. In the process of designing this book - from concepts about every aspects of its production, to the typographic minutiae - and in creating their own individual responses to the texts in the collection - the students have united as a team. As they embark on the next step of their studies, or enter the professional world as graduates, this project will stay with them, as a proud marker of their achievements and invaluable experience gained.

Angharad Lewis | Lecturer Visual Communication / Publishing

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INT RODUCTIO N

IN TRO DU C TI O N

Angharad Lewis | Lecturer Visual Communication / Publishing

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The Creative Writing and English Literature area moved into The Cass this academic year, and the Impression studio anthology is the first collaboration between students on the design, illustration, publishing and writing degrees. It has been an inspiring process to see the critical and creative work of our students emerge in a shared project like this. The students and tutors in the Impression studio have been a pleasure to work with, and the design students’ imaginative and responsive ideas about all aspects of the page have given the writing students’ work an exciting new form. Whilst all of the writing students are interested in the printed word, and many will go on to be writers and work in creative fields, this is the first time that their work has gone through the design and production process of making a book. The writing chosen for inclusion in the anthology represents some of the best creative and critical pieces written by students in the final year of their degree and, as with the design students, the project gives the writing students a concrete marker of the value of their work. The range of creativity in the fictional pieces and the careful critical thinking in the essays show that London Met’s writing students should be justly proud of their success. Our students and tutors are looking forward to many more Cass collaborations like this.

Trevor Norris | Course leader BA Creative Writing and English Literature, BA English Literature

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Trevor Norris | Course leader BA Creative Writing and English Literature, BA English Literature

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FROM L IFE W R IT ING TO FIC TIO N

FRO M LI FE W RIT IN G TO FIC TI O N

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FROM L IFE W R IT ING TO FIC TIO N

FRO M LI FE W RIT IN G TO FIC TI O N

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L OST IN T R A N SLATIO N

LO S T IN TRA N SL ATI O N

by Alessia Cacaveri

I press my thumb on the dirty dark screen of my mobile and I see, clearly, my fingerprint. I study it. It’s made of irregular lines that, nevertheless, seem to follow a precise rule – the rule of the bell. It strikes me how dense they are. What’s stranger is the thicker line that crosses them horizontally. I wonder if it is meant to be there. It looks like it’s the result of the folding of the thumb. I think about what they say, that fingerprints are like your own signature, they belong to you as much as you belong to them. I wonder to what extent this is true. Then my phone rings, the imprint of my thumb disappears behind the bright picture of a woman who, to me, seems to have aged all of a sudden: my mother. I hesitate before sliding my finger on the screen to take the call. I’m tired of hurting her but I’m never too sure whether I should finally start telling her what she wants to hear, or she should give up on what she wants out of me and start listening to whatever I can tell her for now. I breathe deeply, forcing my lips into an imprecise smile, and decide to improvise some semi-truth. Hi mom…yes, I’m good. Did you get my…no, not yet, but I will…How’s daddy?…What? Where am I? In a restaurant; yeah, with some friends…yes, it’s Friday night… She talks and talks and talks. Most of our conversations are monologues. Her monologues made up of questions for me. I say yes and I say no. She asks me to elaborate and I dutifully do, as well as my imagination allows me. Unfortunately, my efforts to fulfil her needs fail once more. Of course, she is not the kind who’d say that sort of stuff. I doubt I could find, if I searched in my memory, any recollection of my mother putting her feelings into words. Well, her feelings for me, that is. Dad is not home yet. We soon run out of subjects – subjects that don’t require a more intimate conversation – and in those following moments of blind silence, in which all I hear is her restrained breathing, I recognise the anticipation of my mother’s obstinate attempts at figuring me out. I instinctively close my eyes, I suppose out of hopeless self-defence, and take a long

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L OST IN T R A N SLATIO N

LO S T IN TRA N SL ATI O N

by Alessia Cacaveri

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sip of the wine that will soon witness the umpteenth defeat of both of us. I’ve never gotten used to it. I know how it works, what she’ll say, what I won’t say, the pain of her silence, and worst of all, how to end the call. But no matter how many times I go through it, I’m never ready for it. I need to run to the shop, I forgot to buy something. My mother’s voice trembles as she says that to my – and probably hers – surprise, making the call a lot briefer than I expected. Sure…I’ll call you tomorrow to wish you happy birthday. I’m then free to hang up and continue sipping the wine the waitress has chosen for me. It’s heavy and that makes me glad. My mother has always been a master of hints. My brother and I had to learn how to decode her since a very young age. On Saturday morning she’d take us along to the farmers’ market. I think of her as one of those women whose posture and gesture suggest subtle elegance and established respect, not a good combination when you are walking the town centre as an impatient child. It seemed, to us, that she knew everyone, or everyone seemed to know her, which meant we’d spend half the time watching her conversing with people whose faces we barely recognised. I would never detect evidence of pride or approval on her face, but then I was only a child. It was by the use of some sentences, by the way she seized us by the shoulders, by the pause before saying our names that we knew whether she thought we were being good or bad. She would never scold us, yet we always knew. It was all worth it because on the way back we’d stop in the main square for the best ice-creams in the world. Even the number of scoops carried her language of unspoken feelings. As we grew, we realised how she was becoming more complex and unintelligible. It was not about tidying up our room or finishing our homework in time for dinner any more. But nevertheless we kept on refining our skills as she grew ever more obscure. It was easier for my brother because he’s always been her favourite. He is not exactly what you would call a perfect son, but in her eyes, he’s always been the better child. Me? I’m a totally different story, something more like a fallen angel. When my glass is almost empty, from behind my shoulder, the waitress’s arm appears with a bottle, the same she had opened to pour me the first glass, and the wine falls like a waterfall that has nowhere else to go but exactly where it’s going, following the course of the river. There have been times when I didn’t care. It was when my mother showed her anger. She would lose her composure, fill the silences with big

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statements and unbreakable orders. I was ungrateful. I was an insult to her intelligence. The more I had access to her anger, the more she unconsciously released me from the burden of inadequacy. She was giving me the opportunity to defend myself from her intrusive existence, from her never-ending complaints, from her suggestions which were never mere suggestions. I fought back with the same weapon, which was the only one I had: anger. This was possible because I was going home only for the weekend while studying at university. Still we both soon grew exhausted; my mother because she was not accustomed to the kind of confrontation that requires screaming and physical agitation, me out of compassion. I searched for glimpses of humanity in her, and found it in her red face and almost watery eyes, but it never translated into mercy, which, perhaps, was all I was expecting from my mother. Why did I leave? When I did leave, there were a thousand reasons why I wanted to go. The usual stuff: a new job, a new city…I was too good to be a tree stuck in one place. Yes, I thought of myself more like a tree that needed to leave in order to grow thicker, stronger roots. I suppose leaving meant finding a way back. All comes down to the fact that my mother didn’t ask me to stay. She said many other things – questions, that is – like how and what and where. Never why. Never don’t. She helped me pack, organised a bag full of medicines as if in London there were no pharmacies. She bought me a beautiful pen on which she had my initials engraved, for the new job she said. Maybe, deep inside me, I knew that, disguised in her scepticism, was her motherly inability to let her daughter go. But I chose to ignore it, just like she repeatedly chose to ignore who I am. Dad drove me to the airport. She didn’t come because she was too busy. It turned out that in the following four years, her being busy coincided with each of my departures after my regular visits back home. As she had not asked me to stay when I decided to leave, she also never asked me to come back. Throughout these four years apart, the weight of the distance has turned the anger into a more painful feeling: disappointment. We are both taking our weapons to sleep, always alert and ready to shoot, still restless, but there is no one on whom we can declare a war. My mother feeds me her disappointment with her cryptic language during the programmed Skype calls. I wonder if she prepares for them, if she studies the right questions, a

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way to penetrate my impenetrable shell, as she calls it. I doubt it though. Maybe in the past, she had a plan and she believed her plan would work, leaving me armless and willing to repent and become the person she had in mind for me to be. It’s a dirty business to try to tear down a wall that no one is willing to admit to have erected. Time consumed her perseverance and began to leave signs on her beauty. Parents should not be allowed to age. They seem strong and unbreakable when you are eight or fifteen or twenty, always right when you need them but mostly wrong and therefore deserving of your neglect. Until one day you take a look at them and linger just long enough to realise they have aged. I can’t hide behind my mother’s long dresses anymore because all of a sudden I notice she doesn’t wear them anymore. I want to despise her for the wrinkles I can now see, for the protruding collarbone, for the white hair she doesn’t dye. For slowly drifting away from the mother who resolutely rejects the individuality of her child. Just when I swallow the last drop of wine, the phone rings again. I can hardly hear it because the bar is now overflowing with loud people. Her photo once more flashes on the screen with the same false yearning that has, at times, deceived me. I throw some money on the counter and head out into the streets of Soho enclosed in the darker colours of the night. What are you doing, Carla? I recite in my head but it’s too late because the annoying ringing stops. I consider calling my mother back but the lights of the city I should, by now, consider mine invite me to get lost and forget, at least for now. What are you doing, Carla? I ask myself in an involuntary refrain as I wait for the traffic to proceed at a crosswalk in Piccadilly. It drives me insane, over and over again, the same question. Since I was a child my life has constantly been up for examination, the sort of examination that searches for faults and is never aimed to reveal the merit, as if my mother had always known that a child like me must become a disgraceful human being. It must have been about two years ago when I finally refused to continue my desperate search for reasonable explanations that would make her not properly comprehend and accept – I had already stopped being so naïve – but rather give up hoping that I would become someone I’m not. That phone call replays in my head as I approach the bottom of the Duke of York’s statue. This is not how I raised you…You are my daughter! I seat myself on the cold marble stairs. The shadows of the night in this spot are a

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hideout for many: drunkards, young lovers, lonely wanderers, me. And who am I? This is who I am. What’s so awful about me? And yes, I’m your daughter. Perhaps it’s about time you start taking account of it. I stop here to escape the chaos. I’m not brave enough to venture inside St. James’ Park. I hate that she never listens. What’s so awful about me? What I hate even more is that she never really answers. Sometimes, very rarely, she screamed on the phone until dad got hold of it and terminated the call saying we’d speak soon. We wouldn’t speak then for a fortnight. I realise my phone’s flashing: there’s a new voice message. I touch the voicemail symbol on the screen. There’s a new voice message. To listen to it, press 1…1…New voice message received at 21 hours and 47 minutes from 0039… “It’s me…I went to the shop. Now I’m back but you are not answering…I hope you are enjoying your evening with your friends…Dad is home. He sends you his love…Tomorrow we are going to the restaurant you like, the one down at the harbour…I wish you were home…” To save this message, press 2… 2.

COMMENTARY

Lost in Translation is a short story that draws inspiration directly from my previous piece of life writing The Lost One. It is a reinterpretation and re-telling of elements of the same narrative. When given the task to write such a piece, I found the it quite challenging for two main reasons: first of all, it was difficult to fully understand the process of transferring a life writing piece into fiction; and then, as I had already touched upon on my previous commentary, I am the kind of writer who always draws inspiration from personal life while fictionalising it and therefore my fiction pieces bear elements of real life and vice versa. With this in mind, I was unsure how to move forward. I had discussed in the previous commentary the level of fictionalisation in my memoir while having to rely on memory and point of view, neither of which are fully reliable. I initially approached this assignment with the option of re-writing it in a much more fictionalised way. This idea was soon discarded for its most likely

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COMMENTARY

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weak (and un-motivational) results. I thought about theme as the bond between the first and second story and finally found the answer changing the point of view from me, as the protagonist, to the second character. This offered me the opportunity to explore a complete new story. I did maintain a level of likeness in terms of setting and atmosphere but I was able to work on a complete new character and plot line. The switch in narrator and point of view was balanced by the use, once again, of the first person. Both pieces feature a first person narrative with the aim to make the reader feel enclosed within the story. In this sense, adopting the third person narration would have allowed me to highlight the different nature of the story: while the first was a memoir directly told by the protagonist with the I, the second piece could have made use of the third person narration as a means to explicitly state its fictional nature. My choice to avoid such clear distinction comes from my belief that the reader should always be allowed personal thoughts and therefore decide to believe what is real and what is not. On top of this, the narrative I clearly joins the two pieces together for this assignment. I reinvented a new character whose story had not been taken into consideration in the previous piece. Yet I still wanted to give her the only characteristic that the reader was able to grasp from The Lost One: a sense of interior trouble and conflict. My attempt was to combine this character with the one described in the previous piece, while the two being different people. Because all we know about her in The Lost One is the perception of her that the protagonist holds, I wanted the protagonist of Lost in Translation to carry the same impressions in relation to other character. For this purpose, I created an evident conflict between the protagonist and the mother which has a deep effect on her. The use of the elephant in the room allowed me to raise both inner tension and the external one with the mother. My great indecision was whether to reveal the cause of their inability to communicate and lack of acceptance. However, I found the answer to my doubts in the piece itself. I asked myself what this story was about and once I answered this, I immediately knew that to reveal the origin of their troubles would not have added any more to the story as the main focus needed to be the relationship between mother and daughter. This story is about love, identity and sense of belonging, all of which which are primary needs. Both the daughter and the mother show a yearning for each other which cannot be fulfilled because sometimes love is not enough.

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Yet how can this be possible between parents and children? Love between parents and children has richness of shades and needs to be handled with extreme care. As Michel de Montaigne notes, the greatest human science is how to raise children and that begins from loving them because the sense of being loved (and therefore accepted) shapes them and defines the people they will become. The elephant in the room plays the important role of disarranging the normal course of parents/children relationship, yet what this may be has little relevance because we all believe that the people we love the most will be able to understand us and lead us towards a better understanding of who we are. Nevertheless, sometimes we are mistaken. The choice of portraying a mother/daughter relationship was made because of the power of such relationship. I can’t agree more with Andrienne Rich in Of Woman Born: Mother as Experience and Institution: “Probably there is nothing in human nature more resonant with charges than the flow of energy between two biologically alike bodies, one of which has lain in amniotic bliss inside the other, one of which has labored to give birth to the other. The materials are here for the deepest mutuality and the most painful estrangement.” Other than listening to many accounts by women and, of course, thinking about the relationship with my own mother, it was useful to analyse the different types of toxic patterns in mother-daughter relationship defined by psychology (psychologytoday.com) and try to insert it within my story. On a final note, the ending bears my personal view on this theme: love can be, and is, enough. And it’s never too late to make it right.

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DEAT H , CH A RLES AND I

DE AT H, CH ARL ES AN D I

by Irina Jauhiainen

I wake up to loud snoring and rain beating against the roof window of a small Parisian backpacker hostel. It’s cold and my ankles are covered in bedbug bites. I’ve been saving money for this trip since the beginning of the summer, and now it’s late October but a mixed-dorm bed on the fifth floor is all I can afford. This trip is my last resort. Several months of devastating inability to write – I have to start again or my inner world will crush me. I’ve come to Paris to see someone who should be able to inspire me. Charles Baudelaire is buried at a cemetery close to my hostel. I stand on the pavement in Cimitière Montparnasse. I try to comprehend the fact that the man who wrote so much of the poetry that has inspired and moved me is right here; his body has decomposed into the ground I’m standing on. The brain that came up with those fantastic lines, the intricate metaphors and images, thought up that shocking, disturbing poetry, has broken up into molecules that have seeped into this mud, grown into this grass, dissolved into the rain that has fallen on this grave over the decades. I understand more clearly than ever that this is how I’ll be some day, too. The sensations of the drizzling rain on my face, the water soaking through my shoes and the cold wind in my damp hair are even stronger with the knowledge that there will be a time when I feel nothing at all. The world will still be there, people will go about their daily business, and someone might pay a visit to the remains of my physical body and I’ll have no idea. I don’t feel afraid. It’s only slightly strange to try and imagine what it feels like to be in a state with no feeling or imagination whatsoever. I shiver and I’m not sure if it’s from the cold or if Charles’ spirit is possessing me. His spirit might well be here, waiting for a poet to channel his unwritten verses through. I’m taken over by a strange pleasure, a welcome possession, ghost-sex.

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DEAT H , CH A RLES AND I

DE AT H, CH ARL ES AN D I

by Irina Jauhiainen

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* Charles has woken up in cold sweat every morning for the last few years, convinced of an evil presence in his bedchamber. Daylight always comes soon and clears the corners of the room to reassure him – and the pain in his stomach returns. This keeps him awake until late at night and disturbs his sleep. The uneasy feeling that wakes him up often stays with him for the whole day. The bedsheets are drenched with sweat and Charles opens a window to let in some dry air. The sheets, the curtains, his clothes, are all getting dirty and moth-eaten, but washing and changing are too much trouble right now. Buying new clothes is likewise out of question. Charles remembers fondly those days when he had his inheritance to splurge on clothes and fine wine. Writing never makes enough money but that is all he wants to do. Expect he cannot do even that anymore.

I escape the increasingly heavy rain to a café where the waitress examines me head to toe in my dripping clothes as I ask for green tea and sit down at a window table with a small notebook in hand. I scribble down a poem I’ve been drafting in my head for the whole afternoon while walking around Montparnasse. My socks are still wet from mud soaking through my shoes. I can’t finish the poem as I never can anything these days, but words are formed on the page and they read in sequence with some sort of harmony and release some of that substance that poets bleed from their pens, the one that forces them to keep writing. A shiver runs through me and I can’t tell / if it’s the cold or if Baudelaire’s spirit is gently making love to mine… My writer’s block has burst and for the first time in eight months I feel something close to relief. I walk all the way to the coach station that evening and sleep like a child for the seven-hour Megabus journey to London. I see Charles everywhere. I think of this thirty-something Frenchman in clothes that were once fancy, dandyish, and are now falling apart. My vision blurs and Chelsea bridge becomes Pont Neuf and I see Charles walking on it, within a crowd and above it, flâneur in the city, sepia-toned 1850s Paris. He’s looking for inspiration too. He’s weighed down by guilt and longing. His lover has disappeared and he knows she has nothing to support herself with. He can’t write anymore now that she’s gone. He’ll take up the quill and the ink will drip off the tip silently into dots on his

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desk and on the edge of the sheet of paper as that simple yet destructive thought lingers on the tip of his tongue – what for? Charles returns from a long walk late in the evening. The pain in his stomach always grows worse towards the evening and sometimes walking is the only thing that keeps it at bay. His mind is also at ease for as long as he walks, but as soon as he’s home and sat on the bed, the dread and anxiety are there again. Evenings are getting darker and colder, and at this time of night there is no escape from the discomfort that surrounds his insides and tenses around his body. With shaking hands, Charles lights several candles to bring at least a little light and warmth into the room. The flickering flames on different sides of the room cast strange shadows on the walls, and the jacket hanging from the doorknob looks like a figure standing in the doorway. No wonder Charles often feels as though someone’s watching him. He looks up once more, almost hoping to welcome an evil spirit that has come to take him away. And it does seem, in the strange light of the dimming flames, that someone’s standing there. Fear blurs his vision as Charles backs slowly to the back of the room. It’s not a mysterious dark figure this time, but a ghost-like warm glow that shines at him and moves closer. He can’t see, hear or smell, but some altogether different sense brings back a flood of memories. First just a faint spectre, she grows in light and matter and I see her now, sparkling with a spectral glow, and I fear I know the answer. I’m beginning to fear her. I can’t see in front of me, the phantom is in my eyes, she won’t fade away. This is more than a vision: she won’t pass within seconds like visions often do but keeps growing stronger until she almost exists. She’s looking at me now. She’s beautiful – her dark hair flows and shines and her dark complexion is warm and full of life – she’s nothing like I imagined Death. Decomposing bodies belong to the gritty reality of the material realm, but ghosts are of the world of beauty and permanence. She exudes an otherworldly glow. Charles recognises her and falls on his knees. “Jeanne…” he whispers. She might as well take him now. She is more alive than he is: his greying skin and watery eyes are much more corpse-like than the increasingly tangible form of the phantom. Charles leans in and breathes in her scent which transports him back to an easier, happier time, and something in his heart comes to life.

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I wake up shaking all over, my throat aching and my eyes so dry I can barely open them. That is the worst: the brief fear that they might never open again. I stumble into the bathroom desperately batting my eyelids and fumbling in the early morning light. The cheap absinthe burns in my stomach and I could swear my urine is slightly green. Echoes of club music beat my head and the nauseating superfluousness of all existence rushes to my consciousness all at once. The spleen is leaking. The inherent sickliness of the human body, slimy with a streak of blood, drips into the sink from my open mouth. This is the process of dying. Every bit of body that comes off, every hair that falls, every chipped fingernail, is nothing more or less than a stage in the gradual decomposition of a mortal human. What difference would it make to be covered in boils that weep pus on top of it all? What is stigma of contagion to a world that is already decaying? Oh, woman, queen of sins – you, vile animal! Disgusting. My eyes still ache but I can see enough to confirm I really am here, in my own reality, my own time. But when I look up into the steamy mirror I cannot be sure it is my own face reflected back. Possession is a curse.

Charles gathers himself and sits at the desk to write. Illness and death will turn to ashes all the fire that blazed for us, those wide eyes fo fervent and tender, that mouth in which my heart is drowned… The words are flowing out of his quill and the ink seeps out onto the paper like pus from an open wound: painfully but resulting in relief. Then there am I, with my notebook and pen, and I’m producing words, too. I start cautiously, like shyly praying – speak to me, Charles, let your poésie flow through me – until the words become my own, reclaimed, and there I see the voice that is so familiar to me, coming out onto paper once again. The poem is that fire, burning everything to ash: his pain, guilt, the sickness that drenches his body and mind. The terrible longing, the ache that’s chipping away at his body, wearing it down little by little… it all burns away until the quill falls from his hand. A faint breeze from the drafty window blows away a pile of cool, white ash from the desk and the chair, scattering it all over the floor. Only emptiness is left. Emptiness waiting for death. And death will come, as a beautiful phantom or as tertiary syphilis or

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water filling lungs or the simple disappearance of consciousness – I will not know until nearer the time. Sleepless nights, to compare on a smaller scale, often feel endless but when dawn breaks the temporality of everything and the realness of things show themselves in a new light and it feels silly to have thought the night would last forever. These days I try not to think too much about what the experience itself will be like. I focus on what will be left behind. If not a wild reputation or a Collected Poems Of, then maybe at least a name dropped in the book of someone more famous, or perhaps a particularly poetic felt tip pen graffiti on a cubicle door in some back alley Stockwell bar.

COMMENTARY

This story is a fictionalised continuation for my travel memoir about visiting the poet Charles Baudelaire’s grave in Paris in October 2013. ‘Death, Charles and I’ transfers the themes from the travel memoir – reflections on mortality of humans, the importance of creativity and the immortality of literature – and is at its most basic a story about a young woman who is trying to come into terms with the fact that people die and to find a way to make the time she does have meaningful. In the memoir I described in detail the reflections on death and decaying of the human body that were on my mind during the graveyard visit, and transferred these thoughts into the piece of fiction. The graveyard scene is more or less the same as in the memoir with only minor stylistic changes, but the events around it have been changed and the fictional story focuses on what happens to the narrator after returning home from the weekend trip. In addition, there are flashbacks to 1850s Paris where the living Charles Baudelaire is introduced as a second character. In this story the narrator is visiting Paris specifically to be inspired to write poetry, and on the visit to Baudelaire’s grave experiences being possessed by his spirit. I intended that the story should be interpretable in two ways; as a fantastical story about actual possession, or as a symbolic tale where the language of spiritual possession metaphorically stands for

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COMMENTARY

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inspiration and the channelling of a writer’s energy. During class feedback on the first draft of the story I got the impression the possession narrative could only be read as metaphorical, so I added the word ‘possession’ to the end of the third-to-last paragraph in order to strengthen the ambiguity. The narration is in the first person with Charles’ scenes in omniscient third to clarify that the speaker lliving in the present time is the protagonist of the story. I considered it important to make this emphasis to create a strong, independent female character who is not only a passive recipient of inspiration from an older male writer, but a good poet in her own right who is temporarily lacking inspiration, and seeks out a writer she admires in order to actively channel his spirit into her own work. Although the characters blend into each other at the end of the story, there is also a suggestion that the writing eventually becomes her own – I would not have considered it a happy ending for a story for the narrator to simply make a connection with Baudelaire’s spirit, but she had to gain her own, independent voice as well. The narrator’s story of rediscovering her creativity is parallelled with the story of Baudelaire coming up with a poem that finally helps him finish and get his collection Les fleurs du mal published. I wanted to explore the differences and similarities between the two characters, living very different lives in different times and places, but have the same feelings, desires and goals. The sections alternate in points of view to suggests simultaneity despite the characters living in different times. In the beginning these are deliberately separate narratives, but I’ve attempted to create a narrative shift towards the end that suggests the characters are getting closer to each other. The final paragraph, although still in the first-person voice of the female narrator, could in terms of its sentiment be spoken by either character. This is to conclude the story with a merging of the two poets who both regain their ability to write through making this connection. I’ve also used short, simple sentences in the first sections to show the aridity of the mental experience of a poet being unable to write, but after the connection made between Charles and the narrator, the text becomes more fluent and descriptive in both points of view to suggest that this connection is awakening the creativity of both. I read Claude Pichois’ biography of Baudelaire for research. This book gives great insight into Baudelaire’s youth through reprinting his letters to his parents, and dating from the letters as well as other surviving writings, develops an extensive timeline of events and other people in Baudelaire’s life. Pichois gives a detailed account of Baudelaire’s relationship with Jeanne

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Duval, a mistress he had a particularly close and intense relationship with but whom he abandoned around the time he was working on the poems for Les fleurs du mal, and I imagined she might have been an inspiration for his poem ‘A Phantom’ whose conception is the plotline of the parts of the narrative featuring Baudelaire. There is a sense of guilt in the poem which I imagined could come from having abandoned a mistress who might now have no other livelihood and might have died on the streets. Reading Pichois’ book further I found out that Duval was still alive when the first draft of Les fleurs du mal was finished, but it is possible that Baudelaire would not have known of her whereabouts nor known if she was still alive as there is no surviving correspondence to prove otherwise. For the narrative style I borrowed vocabulary and imagery from this poem, and also a quotation which is my own translation from the original French text. Baudelaire uses a lot of carnal imagery and evokes rotting corpses in his poetry; I tapped into this powerful device by having the narrator reflect on the reality of the mortal, and eventually biodegradable, human body. ‘A Phantom’ also felt like an appropriate poem to feature in this story as its speaker feels alone “Like a painter whom a mocking God/ condems to paint, alas, in darkness” (Baudelaire 1993:76); it captures the urge to create and the frustration from being unable to do so which both Charles and the narrator are experiencing in this story. In the end of the poem, the speaker finds that creative spark again through making a connection with the phantom that visits him; the same happens to this story’s protagonist after the encounter with Baudelaire’s spirit.

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A N ACID ROMANC E

A N AC ID ROM AN C E

by Jack Houston

We are, for the most part, indistinguishable; the only outward sign, the only way anyone could tell we are not one and the same person is how we wear our long matted halos

of dreadlocks or the spikes of our fresh shaven heads – dressed in black hoods and combats, the only way to place us is the hair. Or lack of it. Dark-ringed eyes complete the uniform – a war paint for a new age army dispatched in small teams to close on our targets, the darkness a friend. It’s like a religion; once we start looking for the hand of our God we see His work everywhere. Our God is the recession. ‘To Let’ signs appear

on buildings like a semaphore that signals: here. Here we can make of the city as we wish, here we can turn the derelict and the unwanted into paradise. Nothing can stop our attempts to gain entry to the sybaritic Shangri-La that is, for a night at a time, our home. Our means of acquisition – unlike lawyers, surveyors and piles of money – the crowbar, the car-jack, the window shattered

to glittering pieces. Each of us plays a part. One of us strides toward a gate, hood up, four-foot bolt-cutter held alongside an arm. One of us starts up a drainpipe, unstoppable

en route to any loose window, any way in. Circling the building like vultures, we pull and prod until the weak

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A N ACID ROMANC E

A N AC ID ROM AN C E

by Jack Houston

We are, for the most part, indistinguishable; the only outward sign, the only way anyone could tell we are not one and the same person is how we wear our long matted halos

to glittering pieces. Each of us plays a part. One of us strides toward a gate, hood up, four-foot bolt-cutter held alongside an arm. One of us starts up a drainpipe, unstoppable

en route to any loose window, any way in. Circling the building like vultures, we pull and prod until the weak

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spot’s discovered. Another of us pulls a jacket around themselves out on the street, the only sign

to the untrained eye that anything is happening, that there’s something more than the occasional London swoosh of late-night traffic, that there’s more going than the twinkle of street-light on tarmac, ready with phone in hand to send signal and alert

those inside if there’s sign of unwanted attention. Alarms are a constant opposition, an always-there bother. We remain tensed like a trip-wire for the too familiar clattering ring

of the bell that follows us as we creep back through windows and gates to retire and wait. Will somebody come? Does anybody care for these piles of cemented masonry more than us? We return

and bodily rip the alarms from walls, deposit them in buckets of water or smash them to bits. How often on the dance floor the music drops, the crowd raises their hands in the air, and the bells, the bells, the bells, can be heard ringing out under the bass-line. Sometimes the buildings

welcome us, as if they will us inside. Gates left unlocked, windows swinging in the breeze. Sometimes we just walk up and the door is already wide, the heating already on. Maybe Dionysus, Teshub, Soma or Nin-kasi, watches

over our shoulder, wills us to success, wants us to succeed. Or other Gods: Mars? Agurzil? Kokou? Or are we like Agwu, Dian Cecht, Eeyeekalduk? Where large warehouses stand agape like gangrenous wounds, we are the surgeons, ready to operate

on the patient: fixing up, stitching together, making do. We administer anaesthetic, counting down from ‘ten’ to not hear the ‘one’ – already under. The body politic unconscious

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spot’s discovered. Another of us pulls a jacket around themselves out on the street, the only sign

those inside if there’s sign of unwanted attention. Alarms are a constant opposition, an always-there bother. We remain tensed like a trip-wire for the too familiar clattering ring

of the bell that follows us as we creep back through windows and gates to retire and wait. Will somebody come? Does anybody care for these piles of cemented masonry more than us? We return

on the patient: fixing up, stitching together, making do. We administer anaesthetic, counting down from ‘ten’ to not hear the ‘one’ – already under. The body politic unconscious

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on the table, spread-eagle under the knife. Sometimes killed. Always cured. Of course, we ask for donations. Some of us stood at the door, hoods up for effect and for fortitude, ready with demands ‘to calm things down if it kicks off ’. The queues: massive: a squirming, shunting mass

of people willing their way inside. Where else can you buy freedom, and so cheap? Here you can do what you want, take what you want, live how you like – something licenced venues forget in their callow desire

to stay within the law. We watch the young, too high to be so high up, slip stumble tumble from the parapets of our castles. They swim in the air, dipping from the edge of rooftops, throwing themselves

through floor holes unguarded, crashing through windows; their arms spinning and clutching the too-thin air, legs kicking as they swim, spines ready to crack on the unforgiving floor. We always call ambulances, of course. We are prepared

to use violence to keep things the way we want them. We don’t want no one on the rob at our parties, and people will steal, the wallet from the pocket, the cash float from the bar, the coat off a back, for the lure

of cooked cocaine. We grab a dealer from a stairwell, strong-armed down the hallway to hurl him from the door – good riddance. We are our own police. No trial. Just expulsion. He, the dealer, returns

with a shotgun. Points it in our faces. All we can talk of is how it ‘shit us up proper’. And so it does, should do. Violence will meet violence, as an eye will be lost for every eye. But for us, it was all a blind hypocrisy. We’re as bad as anyone once we get home, get in and order. Merry to set light to the money

we’ve made. And so we have our own casualties. Families stunned at the crowds that come to see their babies

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we’ve made. And so we have our own casualties. Families stunned at the crowds that come to see their babies

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into ashes. So many of us falling from heights of our own making. Some fall forward, needle still

hanging from their arms, the ambulance only minutes away, lucky. Others disappear into a bathrooms for dabbles and never come back. We carry any of us when we can. We are never without

each other, our lives revolving around the good times like satellites, yet still we feel the cold nip of the space around us. A nip we seek to extinguish weekly, soon daily, until we are not sure where the cold ends and we begin. It’s morning, again, and I’m on the rooftop, just a little higher

than the roof itself, watching the sun peek over clouds like a shy child. We forgive the way the light makes our faces reveal themselves as ashen, the way it brings into focus the night before. But what difference does the daytime make? This is our livelihood. No day job or desk waits for us come morning. We find ways

to trap ourselves anyway, to fix ourselves like frogs in ponds slowly freezing. There are ways of lessening the prize-fight rounds we put our bodies and minds through every weekend, ways that become more

than a relaxing, the deity Bheruji floating in the smoke above our heads. We wake to find ourselves pinned to our beds, like butterflies on boards. But no matter how much we tighten the belt, the life-blood always pumps

through somehow.

We are far from the only sound in the capital – no building is ever too big. Together we can fill hangers

the size of airports. The call goes out, like a howl, and the pack converges, descends on the corpse of another capitalist failure. We sink

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into ashes. So many of us falling from heights of our own making. Some fall forward, needle still

hanging from their arms, the ambulance only minutes away, lucky. Others disappear into a bathrooms for dabbles and never come back. We carry any of us when we can. We are never without

through somehow.

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through somehow.

We are far from the only sound in the capital – no building is ever too big. Together we can fill hangers

the size of airports. The call goes out, like a howl, and the pack converges, descends on the corpse of another capitalist failure. We sink

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our teeth in and rip away at the flesh of industry, commerce and capital. Where manufacturing flees we ride in as makers, start production lines of our very own. Everyone employed turning the rusted hulks of previous business into a constant adventure. In the space

of a night the building turned from empty to derelict. Tags flower the walls. The same ‘Elf ’ or ‘ATG’ or ‘Hit’ in a barely decipherable scrawl line every surface at regular intervals. We watch the youngsters as they work

their way through a building come morning, marking their territory, saying ‘this is now ours’; and it is. We give it to them, or they take it, cut off a space from ‘proper’ society and re-fence it

as playground. We give them the blank canvas on which to paint the world as they wish to see it. We do not judge

the stunted nature of their attempts – not too much anyway. This paradise that is soon turned into a warzone: broken windows, smashed furniture, screaming noise. We are used to being beaten, broken, blasted

into the corners of a society that only seems to claim to care. Here we are rulers of a sub-bass empire that stretches until sunrise: an empire that spreads over any unwanted corner of the capital and beyond: out along ridgeways to quarries, disused airfields, anywhere we can set up and play. An empire

that flies a flag in purposeful tatters. Here we can fashion things in our own image. Old cinemas are always a favourite. The theatricality of the space lends itself to our purposes. The screen, the stage, allows us to pretend

we are whatever we want to be in the rolling smoke-filled, laser-lit darkness. We watch the dance, all of us together, as one. Me, you, him, her, just faces in the dark

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as playground. We give them the blank canvas on which to paint the world as they wish to see it. We do not judge

we are whatever we want to be in the rolling smoke-filled, laser-lit darkness. We watch the dance, all of us together, as one. Me, you, him, her, just faces in the dark

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and this is the purpose of it all, our calling. The benefit we bring with the breaking, the damage, the noise. This is the payback, how we make good: the swirl of the lights, the rhythm’s insistence, the laden bass. We are frequency, vibration itself. The light at the end of the long dark tunnel

of the week. We are arsonists, lighting a fire that can be seen from space, a fire so bright that it cannot be ignored. Or so we think. How much effect can we have? Does anyone but us care for this mayhem? Perhaps the fire burns only within

ourselves, but come daylight, when the cold of the morning reminds us we’re mortal, one of us, whoever, will drag a few pallets into the yard, rip them apart, put them ablaze to warm us. ‘You OK?’ We sit round

the fires, jaws fluttering, breathing the deep breaths of the chemically enhanced. ‘Yeah, yeah.’ I see a face across the fire. ‘I can feel that now, proper.’ A face I’ve seen before. A shiver runs from the tips to the ends. Smoke blows into faces. I turn away. There is only one question

we ask of ourselves, how long is it possible to stay up for? Forever? We are getting older but the kids keep coming in droves; no matter how tired we feel we have to keep up. We wish

it to be three o’clock in the morning eternally, to fly higher and higher. The weekend always beckons. A fresh building to break, make our own. One of us brings out the bolt-cutters, fires up the acetylene torch. One of us stretches his arms, ready to climb. Another picks out their warmest coat. We can’t wait

to again be in the centre of the maelstrom, swirling, twirling. Sunlight comes in

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we ask of ourselves, how long is it possible to stay up for? Forever? We are getting older but the kids keep coming in droves; no matter how tired we feel we have to keep up. We wish

to again be in the centre of the maelstrom, swirling, twirling. Sunlight comes in

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through the holes in the building, the dance floor rammed

full of people. The space around

the people swirls, twirls, opens up

with the light. The echo of the bass

always seems different

begin to couple up, drift apart, start

new alliances. We begin to find

new ways of having it. I am here

in the middle

new ways of having it. I am here

in the middle

of the swirling twirl,

when one night

from within the crowd

when one night

someone comes, someone sent by the goddess Inanna? Freya? Astarte?

from within the crowd

someone comes, someone sent by the goddess Inanna? Freya? Astarte?

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through the holes in the building, the dance floor rammed

the people swirls, twirls, opens up

always seems different

begin to couple up, drift apart, start

new ways of having it. I am here

of the swirling twirl,

when one night

from within the crowd

when one night

someone comes, someone sent by the goddess Inanna? Freya? Astarte?

from within the crowd

someone comes, someone sent by the goddess Inanna? Freya? Astarte?

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new ways of having it. I am here

in the middle

of the swirling twirl,

begin to couple up, drift apart, start

new alliances. We begin to find

in the middle

always seems different

with the sun. Age keeps coming. Some of us

new alliances. We begin to find

as it comes off the walls

with the sun. Age keeps coming. Some of us

the people swirls, twirls, opens up

with the light. The echo of the bass

as it comes off the walls

through the holes in the building, the dance floor rammed

full of people. The space around

with the light. The echo of the bass

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full of people. The space around

always seems different

with the sun. Age keeps coming. Some of us

new alliances. We begin to find

as it comes off the walls

with the sun. Age keeps coming. Some of us

the people swirls, twirls, opens up

with the light. The echo of the bass

as it comes off the walls

through the holes in the building, the dance floor rammed

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stands in front

of me, makes eye contact, then

walks

past, so I follow. [1853]

COMMENTARY

An Acid Romance is written in the first person collective, using ‘we’ as the primary pronoun. I was inspired to attempt this after reading Justin Torres’ We the Animals in which the reader encounters three young brothers who

‘wanted more. We knocked the butt ends of our forks against the table, tapped our spoons against our empty bowls; we were hungry. We wanted more volume, more riots.’

In researching this piece, I also read Then We Came to the End, by Joshua Ferris, a comic novel about office life, which opens with

‘We were fractious and overpaid… Sometimes we questioned whether we were worth it.’

And I was given an indication of the breadth to which this technique can be put by a science fiction novel, On Such a Full Sea, by Chang-Rae Lee that has characters claiming that

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stands in front

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stands in front

of me, makes eye contact, then

walks

past, so I follow. [1853]

COMMENTARY

‘wanted more. We knocked the butt ends of our forks against the table, tapped our spoons against our empty bowls; we were hungry. We wanted more volume, more riots.’

In researching this piece, I also read Then We Came to the End, by Joshua Ferris, a comic novel about office life, which opens with

‘We were fractious and overpaid… Sometimes we questioned whether we were worth it.’

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walks

‘We were fractious and overpaid… Sometimes we questioned whether we were worth it.’

And I was given an indication of the breadth to which this technique can be put by a science fiction novel, On Such a Full Sea, by Chang-Rae Lee that has characters claiming that

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‘We’re no longer fit for any harsher brand of life, we admit that readily’

What all these works have in common is that they are attempting to describe the actions of very close-knit characters, characters that see themselves as somehow apart from the rest of the world, and so feel justified in speaking ‘in’ and as part of a collective. In Carol Anne Duffy’s collection Rapture she breaks stanzas in the middle of a line, Our wishing children pressed their incense into a bowl of sand

in Chinatown, the smoke drifting off like question marks over their heads.

and

What do I have

to help me

this has the effect of disorienting the reader, much like the experience of love of which she writes. As with love, so with the rave, and in writing the piece I decided to attempt to use this poetic technique of the line/paragraph/stanza break, cutting off paragraph breaks in mid-sentence and therefore sometimes altering the meaning of words once you read on. I decided to try this as a way of emulating the disjointed nature of the party experience. I also decided not to name any of my characters as I felt that the reader wouldn’t gain anything from having a random names thrown at them; and if ‘[w]e are frequency’, who needs names? The point of the piece is more what these characters are doing, not who they are. I tried shifting the action into the present tense. I feel this has breathed a life into the piece that it was lacking previously. Now ‘our faces revealed themselves as ashen’ becomes ‘our faces reveal themselves as ashen’ and ‘Alarms were a constant opposition’ becomes ‘Alarms are a constant opposition’. This, I feel, gives the piece more dynamism that I hope will bring it closer

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‘We’re no longer fit for any harsher brand of life, we admit that readily’

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‘We’re no longer fit for any harsher brand of life, we admit that readily’

in Chinatown, the smoke drifting off like question marks over their heads.

and

What do I have

to help me

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What do I have

to help me

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to the reader. Once I had introduced a religious aspect at the beginning of the piece, I wanted to expand on this, so found a copy of The Dictionary of Gods and Goddesses, Devils and Demons in the library and sought various international Gods connected to Partying, War, Health, Opium and Sex (noting the interesting gender differential that turns the piece into a de facto heterosexual love story) to include. The piece’s working title was ‘The System’ but having finished it I decided to change it to ‘An Acid Romance’. This accomplished a number of things: it sets up the ‘romance’ of the final lines; recognises the links between the rave scene depicted and the acid-house scene it grew out of; can be read as An Acid Romance, i.e. not sweet; and, though not referred to explicitly in the text, a fairly large amount of LSD was ingested at the parties in question. I also tried having the punctuation reflect the rave experience in lines like mass

The queues: massive: a squirming, shunting

mass

of people willing their way inside.

visually representing the queues themselves. Where we are first introduced to a first person, we also have direct speech that is reported to no one

‘You OK?’ We sit round

the fires, jaws fluttering, breathing the deep breaths of the chemically enhanced. ‘Yeah, yeah.’ I see a face across the fire. ‘I can feel that now, proper.’

This mixing of the ‘we’ with the ‘I’ and the unreported speech is intended to disorient the reader, leaving them as slightly confused as to exactly what is going on like someone coming up on strong drugs while sat by a pallet-fire at a rave. I attempted to balance this by having our characters, ‘One of us brings out the bolt-cutters, fires up the acetylene torch. One of us stretches his arms, ready to climb. Another picks out their warmest coat’, from the beginning re-enter the piece.

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The queues: massive: a squirming, shunting

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The queues: massive: a squirming, shunting

mass

The queues: massive: a squirming, shunting

of people willing their way inside.

visually representing the queues themselves. Where we are first introduced to a first person, we also have direct speech that is reported to no one

‘You OK?’ We sit round

the fires, jaws fluttering, breathing the deep breaths of the chemically enhanced. ‘Yeah, yeah.’ I see a face across the fire. ‘I can feel that now, proper.’

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I also began to spread the lines out at the end of the piece, slowing the reader’s eye, giving the impression that things are getting a bit ‘spaced out’, and visually re-creating the

echo of the bass

as it comes off the walls

in time for the reappearance of the ‘I’ and the piece’s conclusion. Some of the choices I have made in this piece could be considered a bit too experimental, affectatious even; and if the writing’s not up to scratch, not left-aligning the work will not make it any better. But I think that, what with the subject matter being what it is, the more radical the writing and its presentation, the more it is suited to this particular task.

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I also began to spread the lines out at the end of the piece, slowing the reader’s eye, giving the impression that things are getting a bit ‘spaced out’, and visually re-creating the

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I also began to spread the lines out at the end of the piece, slowing the reader’s eye, giving the impression that things are getting a bit ‘spaced out’, and visually re-creating the

echo of the bass

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as it comes off the walls

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H OME

HO M E

by Nishita Patel

“First, you think the worst is a broken heart. What’s gonna kill you is the second part. And the third, is when your world splits down the middle. And fourth, you’re gonna think that you fixed yourself. Fifth, you see them out with someone else. And the sixth, is when you admit that you may have fucked up a little.” – The Script, Six Degrees of Separation.” They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. June never wanted for this to happen. Her own parents had split when she was in her early teen years, leaving her with her with the irreparable deep scars of abandonment, and now she unintentionally had created new ones. When the life she had created was brought into the world—all pink faced, bottom lip pouting, nose scrunched and chubby fists clenched—she vowed she would protect him, love him, watch him grow up, and give him what her parents never did, a happy home. Ten years later, June didn’t know what came over her but she had known that she had to take a break from everything, for only a few days and then she would return back on the weekend, feeling new and refreshed. But whenever she got back in the car and drove, she couldn’t make herself turn down the interstate entrance. Soon enough, days turned into weeks, and weeks slowly rolled into months and now five entire months had passed, a whole season had gone and her heart ached. It had been too long. She missed the way his smile would reach up to his face up when she made cinnamon hot chocolate; the way his eyes would grow wide and sparkle whenever he talked about happened in the latest The Amazing Spider-Man comic. Had Octopus captured Spiderman yet? she thought. Not seeing him, hearing his voice, killed her than more than anything. This place was not her home. It would never be. Home was that brick house, the scruffy welcome mat, and the smell of French toast on Saturday mornings. Home was where they would dress up as superhero characters for Halloween. Home was where the heart was, and her heart belonged

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H OME

HO M E

by Nishita Patel

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back in Maine. She wondered what was going on at home right now. It was almost six in the evening. Annie and Henry would be eating dinner. It was Thursday so it would be takeout night—Annie’s rule. Would they be watching the latest episode of The Simpsons and eating Chinese? She closed her eyes for a moment and pretended she was back home: her son’s eyes were glued to the television screen; Annie was scolding him that his food was going cold; and she was sneaking all the dumplings from the containers and opening the fortune cookies. But her only future now was loneliness. You did this to yourself, she reminded herself. This is your fault. You did this. You left. You abandoned your son. This was all her fault. Five months had gone by and she hadn’t contacted them. She did abandon Henry, abandon all the promises she made, abandon her duties and responsibilities as a mother, in the same way her own parents did. The last time she had seen him was when he was downstairs eating pancakes that were drenched in syrup. He had given her a sticky sweet kiss on the cheek, telling her that he couldn’t wait to go to the comic book store after school—a Tuesday bonding time they created. A stabbing pain shot through her heart. He had no clue that six hours later he would not be getting the latest comic book, that he would not know where his mother was and when he would see her again. She hoped she hadn’t hurt him too much. He was a strong kid. But to have one of your parents leave the way hers did, the damage was already done. Tomorrow was going to be different. She was going to put a bandage on all the wounds she created. No matter what, she was going to make things right with her son, and maybe, she could try to fix things with Annie too. The last thing she wanted to be was exactly like her parents.

After driving for almost three hours—only stopping to refill gas and grab something to satisfy her empty stomach—she reached the town of Freeport. She drove down the wide streets as if she had never left, remembering where all the potholes were, where all the closed roads were, until she finally arrived at the stop sign that separated her from the road where her house was. Was this a good idea? She knew she should have called first, to give Henry, and more importantly Annie, some kind of warning, instead of

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arriving unannounced just as the same way she left them. She knew in her heart that this was the right way, the only way she would be able to see him again. She took a deep breath and turned down the road. Her stomach twisted in nerves as she drove by the familiar houses that lined the street with their well-manicured green lawns and American flags waving in the wind until she reached her home. She parked the car and turned the ignition off, only hearing the sound of her heart beating loudly in her ears. Her eyes swept across the exterior of the house. It looked the same as she had left it: the same yard and the same large white door. She wondered if the inside was the same, if Henry looked the same, if Annie were the same. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out from the car and walked towards her home. She walked slowly down the path, her heart beating frantically, her stomach filled with nerves and excitement of seeing Henry. Finally, she stood in front of the door where the numbers 1258 written in black stared back at her. With sweaty palms, her knuckles rapped against the fine wood of the door. She diverted her gaze to the rose bush. She remembered when she had left they looked like they were starting to die. Now they looked like shining rubies. Maybe they weren’t home—their car was not in the driveway—maybe she didn’t knock hard enough. The anxiety began to build up until the faint sound of heels clicking against the floor could be heard and the door opened. “I wasn’t expecting the delivery till this afternoon…no matter I’ll—” The other woman looked up, the corner of her lips fell, the smile disappearing. Her eyes widened in shock at the realization of who was standing before her. June had been right. Annie looked exactly the same: her brown hair was pinned to the side bringing out her cheekbones, and her lips were painted a soft coral red—her signature colour. The only thing that looked different were her eyes, they were heavy with dark circles underneath. No doubt caused by stress. A pang of guilt shot through June. “H-Hi.” June said in a small voice, her eyes dropping to the welcome mat unable to meet Annie’s eyes. “What are you doing here?” Annie asked coldly as she crossed her arms in front of her chest and narrowed her eyes. June looked back up at Annie to see her eyes were glaring like sharp shards of ice. To say she was upset would be an understatement. She was furious. She should be embracing her, welcoming her back home with tears of joy. Instead, there were no tears.

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But after five months of waiting June would have the same reaction too. “Annie, I’m sor—” Annie wanted to scream and yell at her. Make her feel all the hurt she went through, still going through. Let her see just how much damage she had done. “Don’t. Don’t even bother to apologize.” “I know I hurt you, but can I please come in?” June waited for a response and was surprised when Annie opened the door wider and stepped to the side. She slowly entered the house and walked into the living room. She had been right. The inside didn’t look different. Everything was still in the same place: the cream couch and coffee table were still placed in the center of the room, Henry’s game system was sitting under the television, the pizza stain was still on the carpet floor, the same framed photos of Henry in his school uniform and playing in the backyard were placed on the mantelpiece, and a photo of all three of them was tucked behind it—the last time they were all smiling together at Disneyland. Maybe that was a sign. Maybe Annie still missed her. Finally, her eyes landed on Annie, who stood in front of her. “Before you say anything, please, just listen to me.” She urged. “Why? Why should I? After everything you put me, put us through. Why should I listen to you?” Annie’s jaw was clenched as she spoke. “Please, I didn’t come here to fight. I-I-I came to make things right.” “Make things right? What makes you think showing up now, five months later, is suddenly going to make things right? “Annie, I know I can’t just magically make all the pain and hurt disappear, but it hurt me too. Still is.” June sighed, “I want to see Henry.” “Give me one reason why I should even let you see him?” “I’m his mother.” A mirthless laugh escaped from Annie. “Because a real mother would just leave out of the blue and go five months with no letter, no phone calls, no nothing?” She said bitterly. “Don’t give me that.” She snarled, her brown eyes darkening with each word. June swallowed the heavy lump in her throat, “But I…“ “Spare me with your excuses, June. I know how much it hurt you when your parents did what they did, but I could never imagine you would cause the same pain and hurt to your own son. Do you know how much it pained me to tell him that I, his own mother, didn’t know when you were coming back from your little rendezvous? What did you used to always say?

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Ignorance is bliss? No! Not knowing hurt him more than knowing. Every day, every single damn day, June, he would come home from school and just stare out of the window and wait to see your car pull into the driveway. He would wait by the phone in the hope that you would call so that he could hear your voice. Until he eventually gave up waiting, knowing that you wouldn’t be coming back. So give me one good damn reason why I should let you see him?” June eyes were close to tears, and her lip began to tremble, the words sent a shot of guilt through her body. “Annie, please—“ her voice choked up. Annie was right. Why should she get to see Henry if all she did was caused him pain and hurt? She opened her mouth to say something else, but froze when she heard the sound of the front door opening and closing. “Mom, I’m home.” A voice said from the hallway. The boy dropped his school bag on the steps of the staircase and walked into the living room. “You’ll never guess who came to school today—“ His response was cut off as he stopped in his tracks when he saw the person he was thought he would never see again was standing in their living room. At first, a look of her hurt flickered in his chocolate eyes, before the tears sprang. “Mama?” He asked in almost a whisper.

COMMENTARY

Fiction can make the truth relatable and understandable to people. As writers, we are told to write about what we know, and what do we know more than our own lives? Because of this, many writers write about a certain place and event in their lives, and create a fictionalized protagonist loosely based on them or someone they know. This is often called writing from a semi-autobiographical viewpoint, a sub-genre of autobiography that mixes elements of fact and fiction. American author Tobias Wolff, who uses this style of writing, describes it as: “I might use colors from the same palette and use experiences from my memory and my own life, but I take off. I’m not loyal to the facts or to

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COMMENTARY

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my memory. I’m really inventing. I’m after a different kind of truth, if you will, when I write fiction.”

The author will use elements from his or her life and combine them with fiction in order to create a different truth or meaning they want to convey. It differs from a memoir as it blurs the line between truth and fiction, whereas a memoir is entirely based on a true account of events. This can be seen in the novel Little Women (1832) by Lousia May Alcott, which follows the lives and experiences of four sisters, Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy March:

“The March is clearly modeled on the Alcott’s, but in the writing on this book, Alcott allowed herself to create, instead of her real family, the family she had always dreamed of having.”

Many scholars suggest Alcott’s novel is loosely based on Alcott’s experience growing up with three sisters. However, novels such as A Million Little Pieces (2011) by James Frey—originally penned as a memoir—told the story of how Frey coped in twelve-step program as a rehabilitation treatment center for alcohol and drug abuse. It was later found out he fabricated many of the events he described:

“Had embellished central details of his criminal career and purported incarceration for “obvious dramatic reasons”

Although he used elements from his life, he blended it with fiction and made up certain events of the story, therefore making it a piece of semi-autobiographical work and not a memoir. One reason why the author may choose to write in this style of writing is to distance and themselves from what they are writing about, and to also make alterations to the story. This occurs in Ned Vizzini’s novel It’s Kind of a Funny Story (2003) he explains he based his novel on his time spent in the hospital for suicide and depression:

“It’s Kind of a Funny Story is 85% true. I actually did spend a week in the adult wing of a psychiatric hospital in Brooklyn after calling a suicide hotline in fall 2004. I was 23 at the time, however, not 15. I made the main character, Craig, 15 in the book but gave him my problems and

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my memory. I’m really inventing. I’m after a different kind of truth, if you will, when I write fiction.”

“The March is clearly modeled on the Alcott’s, but in the writing on this book, Alcott allowed herself to create, instead of her real family, the family she had always dreamed of having.”

“Had embellished central details of his criminal career and purported incarceration for “obvious dramatic reasons”

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worldview. Then I added the love triangle. More specifically, in It’s Kind of a Funny Story, Nia is based on a real person. Noelle is made up. The hospital patients are based on real people.”

This led me to base the protagonist June on my mother who I wrote about in my memoir and use the theme of abandonment. However, instead of it being a heterosexual nuclear family, I decided to change it to a same-sex family with a son. This way, I would be distancing myself from the events but still portraying them in a true fashion, like Vizzini managed to accomplish. This also occurs in Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre (1847). Originally published as Jane Eyre: An Autobiography under the pen name Currer Bell, there are many similarities between the story and Bronte’s own life. For example, in the first part of the novel dealing with Jane’s childhood at Lowood is based on Bronte’s experience at a boarding school with her sisters Elizabeth and Maria. However, in the novel Jane is an only child and the death of her friend Helen Burns who died from tuberculosis was drawn from Bronte’s sisters who died from the same disease as a result of the conditions at their school. Rather than use her sisters, Bronte created a fictional character. Another aspect I slightly altered in this piece of work was the timing. I mentioned in my memoir that my mother came back a week or so after to visit, but in this fictionalized story, I changed the timeline to five months. I did this for dramatic effect and so it would change the outcome of the story. This is seen in Sylvia Plath’s only novel. The Bell Jar (1963) was based on Plath’s decline into clinical depression. Like her protagonist, Esther Greenwood, Plath had an internship with a magazine company in college, met with a similar tutor, was rejected from a writing course she wanted, and fell into a deep depression. However, unlike Plath who continued to suffer from depression and committed suicide, Esther was able to go through treatment. Unlike my memoir that was written from a first-person viewpoint, I decided on writing it in the 3rd person, from June’s point of view. Philippa Gregory is well known for using historical characters and events and mixing it with fiction:

“I think anyone who knows the history of the period would see that the bare history alone gives an amazing and exciting story. The fiction serves to fill in the gaps in the historical record.”

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worldview. Then I added the love triangle. More specifically, in It’s Kind of a Funny Story, Nia is based on a real person. Noelle is made up. The hospital patients are based on real people.”

“I think anyone who knows the history of the period would see that the bare history alone gives an amazing and exciting story. The fiction serves to fill in the gaps in the historical record.”

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Her novel The Other Boleyn Girl (2001) is written from the perspective of Mary Boleyn, the sister of Anne Boleyn, of whom little is known. This led me to write the story from the June’s point of view. I choose this style instead of describing events to show how she was feeling, and unlike my memoir that was written from the child’s perspective, this is written from the mother’s perspective. Moreover, factual information such as picture taken at Disneyland, the Thursday night takeout ritual were taken from my memoir and adapted into the story to balance truth and fiction.

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L IT ER A RY L O NDO N

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L ITE RA RY L O N DO N

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L IT ER A RY L O NDO N

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L ITE RA RY L O N DO N

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SK ET CH ES BY B O Z

S K ET CH ES B Y B O Z

by Kashta Wallace

At twenty two years old and without a clear career path, a young Charles Dickens found himself writing for the Morning Chronicle, a paper with a liberal editorial position. Inspired by a city undergoing an unprecedented transition, Dickens, under the pseudonym “Boz”, constructed his observations detailing the lives of Londoners in the 1830s. Dickens named these pieces ‘sketches’, and they “derive in part from a tradition of graphic representations of urban scenes” and were illustrated by George Cruikshank’s graphic and knowing depictions of Londoners in a way that also influenced Dickens’ continuing work. Stylistically, these verbal sketches display what we now know to be Dickens’ famous ability to describe at length and in depth what he is observing; an ability perhaps best described by A.E Dyson in The Inimitable Dickens (1970) as the creation of worlds within his writing that are “strangely, sometimes ominously alive”. In Sketches by Boz we are able to see how the depictions of city life in his later novels come from a very real place. There are even characters in the Sketches that could be seen as prototypes for the ones that feature in Dickens’ later works, such as the riding-master in the sketch entitled ‘Astley’s (Scenes, XI) and Sleary, the circus master in Hard Times. What is perhaps most remarkable about the Sketches is the fact that at such a relatively young age, Dickens possessed the talent and observational flair which became his trademark and has made him arguably one of the greatest figures in English literary history. Much is made of the subject’s of Dickens’ novels, with much of his focus being on the poor, but in Sketches by Boz we see a reasonable cross section of English society, from the wealthy “life-hater” Mr Minns in Thoughts About People (Characters, I) to the poor and desperate daughter in A Christmas Dinner. In what follows, Dickens’ character creation will be explored in relation to his representation of a larger socio-economic world and the sense that London is a rapidly changing society in the early to mid- 1800s.

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SK ET CH ES BY B O Z

S K ET CH ES B Y B O Z

by Kashta Wallace

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“As Dickens’ fictions record these transformations and respond to this era of unprecedented rapid and radical social change, they articulate contradictory and complicated attitudes to city life”. Dickens was both impressed and repulsed by the city that was, on one hand, the zenith of society but on the other brought about the exact opposite and in many cases played a major part in the degradation of the common man. Even early in Dickens’ career he opts to explore the more ugly sides of London life, with many of the characters he chooses to write about living in far from ideal circumstances and behaving in morally dubious ways. In part XII of the Tales section of Sketches we find a dark tale of an alcoholic who, through his own selfish habit, destroys his family and in the end commits suicide. The city in this tale is presented as squalid, dismal, desperate and hopeless. Loneliness is a theme here, and Dickens treats it as an epidemic which appears to be sweeping across the capital; the picture is of a city filled with lonely, desperate men dependent on alcohol. One of the many impressive phrases in this sketch reads: “Never did a prisoner’s heart throb with the hope of liberty and life half so eagerly as did that of the wretched man at the prospect of death.” This imagery is rich in darkness and expresses the gloomy underworld of London through the figures of the prisoner seeking freedom and the ‘wretched man’. In this sketch we are exposed to the Dickensian trope of broken homes and irresponsible parents. How much that particular trope owes to Dickens’ own experience of being sent to work at the age of twelve due to his father’s imprisonment for debt is uncertain; yet one cannot deny the significance the ‘broken home’ plays in Dickens’ novels and short works. The wretched drunkard of this sketch is depicted by Dickens as the culprit in the family’s breakdown and subsequent descent into squalor; yet we are still invited to show sympathy towards the man who is responsible for the mess. We cannot help but feel for his utter uselessness and self-destructive tendencies; and while he is to blame for both his sons’ deaths, he is in a way redeemed towards the end: “For one instant — for one brief instant — the buildings on the river’s banks, the lights on the bridge through which the current had borne him, the black water, and the fast-flying clouds, were distinctly visible — once more he sunk, and once again he rose. Bright flames of fire shot up from earth to heaven, and reeled before his eyes, while the water thundered in his ears, and stunned him with its furious roar.” There is an air of the metaphysical in this paragraph; with the dark yet powerful descriptions of the

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elements coupled with the brief semi-resurrection, which undoubtedly brings forth images of Christ. It seems as though the wretched drunk is a sort of tragic hero to be redeemed; and this is certainly in keeping with the liberal Christian and progressive morality which Dickens stood so firmly by throughout his career. This sketch embodies much of what Dickens has become known for – criticism of moral decay on the one hand, pathos and sympathy on the other, with the narrative voice not favouring one position overall but keeping a journalistic distance that forces the reader to decide. At the other end of the social scale observed by the young Dickens in Sketches By Boz, the lives of supposedly genteel folk are also playfully illustrated. In these sections, such as the tales Horatio Sparkins and The Tuggses at Ramgate, Dickens uses wit and irony to huge effect as we look into the lives of those with upper class pretensions, exploring the notion that “snobbery is the comic flaw of the English”. In tales such as these, Dickens invites us to look rather cynically at the bourgeois ambition of imitating those born into wealth, and the pretensions performed by characters in ignorance of the demeaning nature of their desires. The Tuggses at Ramgate is the story of a lower middle class family, headed by Mr. Joseph Tuggs, who inherits the sum of twenty thousand pounds following a lawsuit in regards to a will. Much amusement ensues as the family see this as the chance to live their (and presumably most other members of the lower-middle class) upper-class fantasies:

‘We must certainly give up business,’ said Miss Tuggs. ‘Oh, decidedly,’ said Mrs. Tuggs. ‘Simon shall go to the Bar,’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. ‘And I shall always sign myself “Cymon” in future,’ said his son. ‘And I shall call myself Charlotta,’ said Miss Tuggs.

The concept of an individual, or family, becoming rich overnight will be familiar to someone with even the most remote knowledge of Dickens’ novels; and in a similar fashion to the way he treats Pip’s ascension to the upper echelons of society in Great Expectations, Dickens shows that the Tuggs’ newfound fortune isn’t quite the ladder to the upper classes they imagine it to be. The Tuggs’ family story is a good deal more humorous than Pip’s and exchanges like the one above, as well as later conversations with the military captain and his wife, comically show the differences

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between the two classes. There is real comic value in this piece as the apparent change in fortunes leaves them worse off in the end because he captain and his wife successful trick the family out of their fortune. Again, through Dickens’ clever use of narrative voice and moral distance, we are invited to laugh at the Tuggs in some ways, though not in a heavily critical manner. Indeed we have sympathy for the real financial need that runs through their world; but this light-hearted tale is one that will have the reader laughing throughout. While the story doesn’t end well for the Tuggs there is not the same descent into desperation or sorrow shown in some of the darker tales, and this indicates, even in these very early sketches, Dickens’ versatility as a writer and his wish to show the various ways that finance dominates life. While he is championed for his novels which highlight the impoverished conditions of some parts of London, his skill at satirising the society of late Georgian and early Victorian England is often underrated though in many ways it is just as gratifying to read. The story of the Tuggs is deliberately unrealistic and ludicrous. But that contributes to the comic appeal of the tale and could be taken further as a critique of the way in which Dickens sees society. Much like the art of his long-time illustrator George Cruikshank, Dickens’ sketches show a real diversity of characters, simultaneously living separately and together in a city that reaches a population of 4 million by 1870, the year of his death. The range of emotions displays the contradictory nature of the city, full of opposition, contrast and the accident of being forced together in this space, wherein the wealthy and destitute may live side by side on the same street. The skill with which he is able to construct and condense these characters and their lives in a way that is recognisable in emotional truth if not entirely believable in comic detail is commendable. We can also see the way that the young Dickens uses these early pieces as a foundation for his later works, which are in many ways more layered versions of these shorts and the characters that reside in them. These sketches are a landmark step for London’s literature as it moves towards a more creative representation of the city and this essay is simply not long enough to appreciate the complexity the sketches have to offer yet by providing two seemingly opposite ends of the spectrum of Dickens’s writing, the versatility of his ability to craft these characters and stories is clear.

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DAN IEL DEFOE: PUBL ISH I NG AND DIS S ENT

DAN I EL D EFO E : P U BL I S HIN G AN D D IS S EN T

by Chris Rudd

Daniel Defoe is now chiefly remembered for his fictional writings; these include works such as Moll Flanders and Robinson Crusoe. However, during his lifetime it was his business dealings and his non-fiction writing about his religious and political views that dominated how he was perceived by the public and the authorities. Defoe was born circa 1660 as Daniel Foe (he added the aristocratic sounding ‘De’ later in his life) to a father who was a tallow chandler and a religious dissenter in central London. Despite his father’s wishes for him to become a non-conformist minister, Defoe had aspirations “to be a great poet and to be Lord Mayor”. There had been other Lord Mayors who were non-conformist such as Sir Humphrey Edwin and Sir Thomas Abney, so even though it was not possible for Defoe to teach in schools or hold a position within civil office, due to the Act of Uniformity that was passed in 1662, there was still the chance to hold one of the highest positions in England. With this in mind, Defoe established himself as a hosier since working in one of the livery trades would enable him to move up the ranks within his company and eventually become Lord Mayor. For a while it certainly seemed possible that Defoe could reach this goal. While he built his business as a dealer in hosiery he also began to build the reputation that would be required of him if he ever wanted to be “elected to … the Court of Aldermen or even Lord Mayor.” He married Mary Tuffley in 1684, and with the dowry of £3,700 that she brought to the marriage (worth about £400,000 in today’s currency) he was able to expand his business dealings to include the import and export of goods such as wine, spirits and cloth. For the next few years he carried on with his trading and built up his profile as a man of the City. In 1687 he became a member of the Livery Council: a group which had the ability to elect people to high profile roles such as Auditor, Lord Mayor

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DAN IEL DEFOE: PUBL ISH I NG AND DIS S ENT

DAN I EL D EFO E : P U BL I S HIN G AN D D IS S EN T

by Chris Rudd

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and Member of Parliament. Being a member of the Livery Council was a necessary step that Defoe took in his ambition to become Lord Mayor. In 1688 at just 28 years old Defoe published a political tract, A Letter to a Dissenter from his Friend at the Hague, concerning the Penal Laws and The Test. In this pamphlet he attacks James II for introducing the Declaration of Indulgence. This declaration was seen by many of Defoe’s fellow dissenters as a positive step because it allowed them the freedom to follow whichever form of religion they wished. Defoe however was unhappy because he saw it as an attempt by James II to claim an absolute monarchy and also to try and reintroduce Catholicism as the national religion. In A Letter to a Dissenter from his Friend at the Hague, concerning the Penal Laws and The Test Defoe begins to show his ability to take on a persona. He appeals to the reader as though he has a wisdom and knowledge beyond his years by using phrases like “You and I have liv’d long enough in the World to observe that the most pernicious Designs have been carried on, under the most plausible Pretences.” This style of writing, using a persona that was different to his own identity, shows his ability to form polemical stances and his ability to appeal to the public’s conscience. However, when William of Orange gained power in 1688 the status quo of prejudice against the non-conformist religions was maintained and it did little to help Defoe and his fellow dissenters. In 1692 Defoe encountered the first major obstacle on his path to becoming Lord Mayor of London. With debts amounting to as much as £17,000 (roughly £2,000,000 in current currency) he was imprisoned on numerous occasions as a debtor. This was due in part to bad luck, when a ship “in which he invested was captured by a French man-o-war, and there were unexpected losses on cargoes to New England and Ireland.” However it should be noted that even though Defoe claimed he was “A Man of Misfortunes … I have not been a Man of Vice”, he “squandered his wife’s enormous dowry and cheated his friends and mother-in-law.”. Defoe managed to set an agreement with the creditors that had put claims in against him and was able to leave prison. In the late 1690s it is believed that he became an agent for King William III, writing pamphlets and poems that both defended William and mocked William’s detractors. An example of some of this work is the poem he published in 1701 called The True-Born Englishman. This poem was wildly popular. As Backscheider states: “His timely satiric poem The True-Born Englishman required fifty

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editions by mid-century.” This shows that at times Defoe’s wit and political views were firmly set to the nation’s pulse. In the poem he mocked the idea of there being such a thing as a ‘pure-blood’ Englishman, drawing on the many wars that had been waged and the many different nations that had conquered England over many hundreds of years. The following quote from the poem shows both the humour and combative quality of his wit.

“A true-born Englishman’s a contradiction, In speech an irony, in fact a fiction. A banter made to be a test of fools, Which those that use it justly ridicules.”

In 1702 William III died and was succeeded by Queen Anne; and while she was an Anglican Protestant like William, she was much more conservative and less moderate towards religious dissenters like Defoe. Rather than embrace the Queen and try to further his political career, in December of 1702 Defoe published a new pamphlet called The Shortest Way with the Dissenters. Even more so than his bankruptcy, publishing The Shortest Way was the single biggest mistake in Defoe’s life because it managed to annoy both sides of the debate on the matter of dissenters and how they should be treated. Not only did he antagonise the ruling Tory party whose style and rhetoric he had lampooned and taken to its extremes, but he also managed to annoy the dissenters whom he attacked for taking part in the Occasional Conformity Act of 1711. Lines such as “NOW, LET US CRUCIFY THE THIEVES!” mimicked the strong rhetorical style that high standing clergymen such as Henry Sacheverell used. This caused confusion for many readers of the pamphlet as they did not realise it was meant to be a satire. A warrant was issued for Defoe’s arrest for the crime of ‘seditious libel’ and although he managed to evade capture for a few months, in May of 1703 he was eventually arrested. He was sentenced to spend the last three days of July in the pillory, “for an hour each time in three of the busiest places in London – outside the Royal Exchange in Cornhill (near his own home), near the conduit in Cheapside and finally in Fleet Street by Temple Bar.” To spend time in the pillory was both humiliating and dangerous; members of the public would throw whatever they could find at a person in the pillory and this could lead to people being maimed or even killed.

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“A true-born Englishman’s a contradiction, In speech an irony, in fact a fiction. A banter made to be a test of fools, Which those that use it justly ridicules.”

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“A true-born Englishman’s a contradiction, In speech an irony, in fact a fiction. A banter made to be a test of fools, Which those that use it justly ridicules.”

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As well as being sentenced to the pillory, Defoe was also fined and ordered to spend time in Newgate Prison. While in prison he went bankrupt and was unable to pay the fine that had been levied against him. Fortunately for Defoe however, the government realised that he could be used as an ally rather than being seen as an antagonist. His debts were paid by a secret government fund and he was eventually put to use as a ‘spin doctor’ producing The Review, a thrice weekly publication that described the government in positive ways. This continued for many years and Defoe was even sent on expeditions to Scotland in order to gain intelligence about opponents to the government and to also try and influence the opponents to get favourable results for the Tory government. This work continued until Anne’s death in 1714 when she was succeeded by the more moderate monarch George I. From this point until Defoe’s death in 1731, he continued to produce political writings and also ventured into fiction. As he grew older, his output was much less polemical and he even ventured into works of fiction, producing the classics that he is now most famous for, such as Moll Flanders and Robinson Crusoe. Defoe’s life shows us how politically charged 16th and 17th century London literature and publishing was, how different monarchs had great influence over the politics of the day and also how religion was completely suffused with politics. It is because of this politically charged atmosphere that Defoe became so infamous to his peers; however it is also because of his infamy that Defoe has become such a popular figure that has stood the test of time.

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PUT N EY H E ATH

PU TN E Y HEAT H

by Jack Houston

Lord Wellesley His Majesty’s Imperial Forces Portugal

Mr George Canning Gloucester Lodge Brompton England

Thursday Eve. Sept. 21. 1809

Dear Lord Wellesley, I am all a flutter. My heart still beats so! I shall nevertheless attempt to calmly recollect this morning’s tumultuous events for you. Word has, of course, already been sent to my mother & aunts, but there are certain details that must remain within the company of men. I hope this letter finds you & your mission well. I am lying at my home, a war-wound in my thigh. I thought of you all this day & felt that you my dear friend would need know the outcome of today’s events most. For at last, this terrible business between myself and Lord Castlereagh is complete! It was just getting light when my footman woke me. ‘Sir,’ was all he said, knowing my mind to be pre-occupied (I am lucky to have found such good service). There was a sombre mood in the house. The servants were going about their business as if there had been a death. I sat up & ignored The Times my footman had brought me (as you will know, such a disinclination for the events of the day should be taken as a sign of my parlous state of mind). My morning toast was buttered & still warm but tasted of nothing but ash in my mouth. Under normal circumstances, I would have waited for the fire to warm the room, but this morning I simply shivered in the late September cold as I put on my breeches.

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PUT N EY H E ATH

PU TN E Y HEAT H

by Jack Houston

Lord Wellesley His Majesty’s Imperial Forces Portugal

Mr George Canning Gloucester Lodge Brompton England

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Lord Wellesley His Majesty’s Imperial Forces Portugal

Mr George Canning Gloucester Lodge Brompton England

Thursday Eve. Sept. 21. 1809

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Today. Today was the day I faced death. I had realised this before of course, ever since receiving the challenge — but it was only now, on the very morning of its happening, that I fully appreciated its import. O, how fear now tormented my soul! No more would I wake to find the sun rising over the horizon, no more would I taste… anything, not even half-burnt toast. I was certain, of course, of joining the host of heaven. But all I could think of was how long would it be until I were reunited with my wife & children again. To leave them now! As you are surely aware, I have been parted from them three years too long already. At this thought, I do not mind admitting, an involuntary sob rose in my breast. I knew, of course, that it would never do to be overwhelmed so. Not with what the morning held. I knew that I must hold my hand steady, & a steady hand requires a steady mind. In the hall way of my house Mr Charles Ellis stood waiting for me. True, Mr Ellis had not been my first choice — that would of course have been you my Lord — but he had been near unsurpassable in his efforts, running with messages back & forth, beseeching Lord Castlereagh to try to see sense. To no good end however. Lord C.’s intentions were set firm. Come this very morning, he would continue to demand nothing less than his satisfaction. A curricle waited for us as we stepped out of my house. Around us the fields lay wrapped in mist. I could only think of this as good. We were riding out over Battersea Bridge & away from the city to Putney Heath, so that the morning’s deeds may proceed unseen by anyone. As I am sure you are aware, my Lord, it was not the first time such an act had taken place on that very field. You will remember it is only eleven years since our late Prime Minister had himself challenged Mr Tierney on the very ground on which we were fated to meet! I am sure that you heard the rumours that on that occasion the seconds had undercharged the pistols to avoid injury. I could only hope for similar luck on this cold, cold morning. But Lord Yarmouth, Lord Castlereagh’s intended second, is as you know notoriously vicious. And, in any event, my opponent is a most practised marksman. I could only surmise that my best hope lay in raising my arm to Lord C., thereby perhaps at least putting him off his aim, rather than shooting wide. I ask you my Lord, what was I to put first? my life or Lord C.’s prideful sensitivities? The driver whipped the horses & the curricle creaked as it shifted forward. We were away. At that moment I looked across to Hyde Park. I had

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not spent nearly as much time there as I’d hoped. We men of government never seem to have the time to enjoy delights such as those, do we? There it is, so close, & I had barely set foot within it! There was of course no trouble from the guards on the King’s private road, as you know. As we approached the water, I saw that some of the oil-lamps on the bridge were still spluttering, though it was half-light by now. The wooden fences that lined the bridge looked particularly flimsy that morning & though I normally would avoid taking that rotten, wooden bridge across the river, this were not a morning on which to be overly concerned for my own safety! As issuer of the challenge, Lord Castlereagh was likely to be at the field already, checking the pistols, making sure the ground was firm. All I could do was to swear to see this out in the manner befitting a gentleman. We began the slow rise up to the heath. Behind us London could be seen through the heavy black fog of nature’s mist & the city’s morning fires. I turned and attempted to catch one last glimpse of the place. I was pulled back in by Mr Ellis, who said, ‘We’re nearly there. Are you ready?’ — ‘As I must be,’ I replied, hoping my voice would convey some nonchalance. — ‘I shall do everything in my power to avoid bloodshed,’ said he. — ‘Thank you.’ I knew my friend meant what he said, but added, ‘I fear that what will come of this morning is already set in the intention of my enemy.’ — ‘Indeed,’ came the reply. We rode on up the hill in silence. The two men stood in the half light of morning as we approached them. My second went to confer with his. I couldn’t quite catch what they were saying, though it were deathly quiet. Lord Yarmouth & Mr Ellis then beckoned myself and Lord Castlereagh to approach. We walked out onto the heath together. Mr Ellis came to my side and said simply, ‘Twelve paces.’ — ‘Good,’ I replied, glad that the furthest distance had been agreed — there was no desire within myself to render the business more desperate than it need be. — Mr Ellis said, ‘You shoot together.’ This was also to the good. I had no pretension whatever to the first fire, though this were my right, as it would of course have implied that I intended some offence by my actions. Lord Y. measured the ground and Mr Ellis followed suit. We took our places. Lord Y. took a coin from his pocket. — ‘Heads,’ said Mr Ellis. Lord Y. flipped the coin. — ‘Tails,’ said Lord Y., with something of a smirk. “I will call it.’ I saw two crows fighting a way off. The noise they made sounded fearsome to me, but none of the rest of the party seemed to notice it. Caaa

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Caaa over and over Caaa Caaa as they hopped around each other. Who knew what they fought over? I thought it unlikely that their fight were any more important than the issue myself and Lord Castlereagh were preparing to settle. Honour. Power. Respect. What else do we creatures fight over? I looked across at Lord C. My opponent stood resolute, his features hardened into a scowl. Mr Ellis took my pistol and as he did so said to Lord Yarmouth, ‘I must cock it for him. He’s never touched a pistol in his life.’ You’ll know this to be true, and it came as no surprise to Lord Y. Mr Ellis cocked the pistol and handed it to me. It is a large thing, a pistol. Over a foot long, and its weight felt unusually heavy in my hand. I worried that I would have trouble lifting it when the time came. The crows continued their battle, now jumping around to behind where Lord C. stood. The were distracting me. And I tried to focus on my opponent. Any moment now Lord Y. would call for us to fire. It would do me no good to shoot one of the crows only! I could feel my heartbeat in my throat, my ears, my whole head beating. Lord Yarmouth stood implacable. He looked from myself to Lord Castlereagh and the back again, then said, ‘Gentlemen, take your aim.’ We each raised our pistols, both of us aiming full-square at the other. There was to be no backing down now. ‘Fire!’ I pulled the trigger. There was a flash. It took an age for the powder to ignite. When it did, the noise was like nothing I’d ever heard before. My ears rang like church-bells. The smoke cleared. I had not been hit. When I looked over to Lord C., he too still stood. Lord Yarrow asked my second for an explanation. I must admit I had none. I simply told Mr Ellis that I had come to this place to give Lord C. satisfaction. It was for him to decide when he’d had it. Lord Y. then said, as if to both of us, ‘It is a pity, no mischief being as yet done, that Mr Canning did not fire into the air. As it is, I fear there must now be one more shot fired. But, whatever the result, this business cannot be allowed to continue further.’ Mr Ellis concurred. I could still feel my heart pounding in my ears. Once again I have to repeat, my Lord, that I could conceive of no other option but to raise my arm toward Lord C. and shoot in his direction. He had aimed straight at me. — Lord Y. then said, ‘After this shot we walk from the ground,’ in a loud and clear voice. Then, ‘Gentlemen, your aim.’ Again, we both took aim at each other. It seemed an even longer time for Lord Y. to call the shot. The same click. The same long wait. The same tremendous crash. Once again I thought that we both had missed. But then agony shot up my left thigh. It was all I could do not to scream. Upon

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seeing the rent in my breeches, Mr Ellis came to my aid to hold me steady. — ’Perhaps I ought to remain.’ I said. And then louder, ‘Are you sure we have done?’ — Lord Y. answered, ‘Certainly.’ —And, with that, Lord C. approached me and with Mr Ellis helped me from the field. Neither myself or Lord C. felt it necessary to discuss the matter further. I write now from Gloucester Lodge. I am well and my leg barely hurts at all. The ball has passed right through cleanly, so I will not find myself lame. I don’t mind saying that if you wish to have such an operation done, I can truly recommend Lord Castlereagh as surgeon!

Your Lordship’s most obedient humble servant, Geo. Canning

COMMENTARY

The impetus for this piece originally came from the book, Violent London, where I discovered a gruesome description of the hanging of a gang of men who had planned to assassinate a large number of the cabinet of the day. I also discovered that, ‘Amongst the crowd was a young Charles Dickens.’ This was a fascinating detail so I decided to research the event further. In the book Enemies of the State I found a fictionalised description of the events of the night of the intended assassination imagining what would have taken place if everything had gone to plan. As the event in question had already been depicted fictionally, and not wanting to tread where another had already not feared to, I felt that I should perhaps look elsewhere for inspiration. Luckily, in the same book there was another interesting detail. That a duel had been fought in 1809 between two members of the cabinet (one of which was at the dinner targeted by the Cato Street conspirators) so I decided instead to attempt to research and write a piece that looked at a duel from the inside. The English language used in the early 19th century (especially in the letters and documents that have come down to us) might have, I felt, come across as put on, or too flowery to the modern eye/ear. To counter this I used

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Your Lordship’s most obedient humble servant, Geo. Canning

COMMENTARY

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an epistolary form. This was a popular form at the time that the events took place. John Cleland’s Fanny Hill being published prior to these events. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein makes use of it. Anne Bronte used a letter to frame the action of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, and arguably the most famous epistolary novel, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, was published at the other end of the century. A lot of research went into the style of letter writing of the time. I discovered that underlining certain words for emphasis was a popular thing for writers letters to do (there was no ctrl I in those days!) I also discovered that George Canning in particular always used ampersands. When it came to using dialogue in a letter a person would use dashes to make it clear when some one had started speaking. I tried to keep to these stylistic, typographic choices when writing the piece to give it added authenticity. And, strangely, wherever a Lord’s name was used more than once in a paragraph, it would be abbreviated with an initial though the same rule did not apply for untitled persons. The duel itself was also an interesting area of research. It was not, as I had previously believed, simply a matter of ‘point and shoot’. There existed an entire system of rules and regulations that governed the ‘sport’ of duelling. For instance, if one were to be challenged to a duel, one would have the right to the ‘first fire’, i.e. you would have the right to fire on your opponent first. I believe this in some way ameliorated the fact that, having been challenged to a duel, you couldn’t back down, and so in effect you were being forced to fight. This adherence to the rules led to the events described in the piece to pan out in the way that they did. As for the piece itself, I decided that I wanted to create an authentic, realto-life piece, so based the action on witness statements of events. I therefore had to use a number of fictional devices to build an atmosphere of foreboding in the earlier parts of the text; having my character wake up in the cold, sombre house; having him have death foremost in his mind; the rickety wooden bridge; the crows. When we get to the action I tried shortening the senses to give an added sense of tension. In the second round of shooting, I used a device of having him repeat the words ‘the same’ three times. In this way I hoped to give the reader time to absorb the details and so be very much there with our main character when the ‘agony shot up [his] left thigh’. In a final detail the line about if one were to ‘have such an operation done’ 1818 was lifted almost verbatim from a letter that George Canning wrote to his ‘Mother & aunts’. I also discovered that George Canning’s London home is currently for sale. A snip at 14 million pounds!

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FA ST ER T H A N TIME

FAS TE R THAN TI ME

T H E STORY OF A T R A IN, A C RYSTAL PA L AC E A N D A DA R ING GIR L

THE STORY OF A TRAI N, A CRYSTAL PAL ACE AND A DARING G IRL

by Alessia Cacaveri

It was a certain Thomas Cook who made her spill tea on her fresh white blouse at the improbable idea of going to London. Mary, who had entered the kitchen carrying a turkey from its lifeless neck precisely in time to see the accident, gave her the usual look of disapproval; Mary was like that, the kind who disliked the presence of anyone in her kitchen, especially if that anyone was to make a mess. Who this Mr Cook was, Florence had no idea and very little interest on finding out, nevertheless she trusted him unquestionably. Careless of the troubles he had already caused her – the stain on her blouse and the ever-growing antipathy of Mary – she tucked the Cook’s Exhibition Herald in the pocket of her heavy skirt and enthusiastically announced to the world (the world which was a large kitchen decorated with shiny copper pots and cast iron saucepans, inhabited by two equally small but greatly skilled ladies, of a proper townhouse in York): I shall board that train. The girl is utterly mad, thought Mary while chopping the head off the turkey with the ease of someone who’s been chopping heads off since she was born. Florence was mad not because she wanted to board a train, in fact Mary hadn’t even heard the sound of the word train, probably because she had never heard the sound of a roaring locomotive and she unconsciously ignored the possibility of its exciting promises; any mentioning of that hellish machine (she’d said once) passed unheard. Florence was mad because she wasn’t exactly a typical girl. Mary was certain of it, so sure that the idea of not understanding what made her different from the other young girls and the fact that Florence was such a kind soul irritated her to the point that she couldn’t bear having her around.

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FA ST ER T H A N TIME

FAS TE R THAN TI ME

T H E STORY OF A T R A IN, A C RYSTAL PA L AC E A N D A DA R ING GIR L

THE STORY OF A TRAI N, A CRYSTAL PAL ACE AND A DARING G IRL

by Alessia Cacaveri

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Now get out of here. You have work to do, young girl. It’s almost 6:30. Yes, it is almost 6:30! Her voice had never sounded so full with joy. But, clearly, her excitement did not derive from the time being 6:30. It’s almost 6:30, Jane! Yes, Flo, you said it already. And? Also Jane was smiling now, carried by Florence’s good mood. And? What do you mean ‘and?’, Jane? …And a crown and a Mr Cook will take me to London. Jane, will you please continue brushing those potatoes? We certainly have more important matters to take care of. Oh Miss Florence Buxton, is that true? It is true indeed, my dear Miss Jane Finning. But surely a girl can’t go to a city like London on her own… My dearest Jane, does a girl not have two legs and two feet? I suppose she does. Then a girl can, and should go to London on her own. Jane! The potatoes! Dear Lord help us. Enough with all this! A crown. That was all she needed. And, of course, a clean blouse before mistress came downstairs for breakfast. She tightened the apron around her slim waste and hurried to the parlour. A crown. How much had she saved up? The flowers looked beautiful this morning, with the sun shyly entering through the bay window and irradiating the room with a sense of peacefulness. Spring, could there be a better time of the year? She did have five shilling. And just enough time to arrange the plates on the breakfast table before the restless whistle coming from the kitchen announced tea was ready to be served. There was another whistle; much louder, dangerously more powerful. Not so close, miss; you surely don’t want to fall on the rails, do you? From the edge of platform 2, Florence could see it. She could see the steam furiously exhausted by the angry chimney; she could see its dark iron coat advancing with ceremonious pride. A large crowd of well-dressed gentlemen, excited children, all sizes of luggage, anxious ladies, workmen in their Sunday best, they were all there, waiting for its unmistakable roar to get closer. The most of them went silent; the rest, they smiled, pleased with what they were seeing; and they were the ones who knew speed wasn’t necessarily something to be afraid of. At the last whistle, almost at the platform, Florence felt a shiver running through her body – was she scared?

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Was she excited? She could not quite comprehend. But the big black clock hanging off the waiting room wall was the confirmation that what those who know said was in fact true: trains ran faster than time. So she boarded the first train of her life as if she was boarding her life for the first time. She sat herself on the wooden seat from where she could watch the world and at precisely 9:40am, the explosion of the coal inside the engine gave motion to the big wheels. She was on it. Florence Buxton you are on a train, she whispered to herself. The train slowly gained speed. She speculated on whether this Mr Cook could be found aboard but soon abandoned that silly idea, surely he wouldn’t be travelling on every of his trains. Then the pistons let their metallic voice be heard and while the children attempted to imitate them in their shrill voice, the ladies secured their arms around those of their husbands. Florence held herself tightly to the protection and slightly let her head out to catch the wind. As it went faster and faster, what Florence had known until now was left behind, becoming smaller and smaller. She didn’t mind. She glanced at the Midland ticket clenched in her hand – it was still London, stamped on it – and was relieved to know she hadn’t boarded the wrong train. First time, miss? May I ask why you assume so? It’s relatively easy, for me. I still haven’t said yes. He didn’t reply. He sighed, amused, looking at the countryside in movement past Florence. He turned the page of the newspaper and continued reading. Florence observed and liked his – let’s put it in this terms – lack of mannerism, perhaps a little of self-indulgence. He was reading, disinterestedly, an article about the robbery in a hat shop in Mayfair. Every now and then he’d pause the reading and glanced around as if studying the people in the wagon. Florence noticed the fancy silk vest, the golden watch hanging from the front pocket and the perfectly neat hat he kept on his laps; not even Mr Hughes could afford such fine garments. She wondered why such a gentlemen wouldn’t be travelling first class – even though, to be completely suspicious, he wasn’t carrying proper gloves. We have (he checked the time) exactly 23 minutes. May I ask for what? But of course to solve the mystery; the mystery of how I know this is the first time you ride a train.

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I’m going to London for the first time, Mr… Mr Keen. And you, Miss… Miss Buxton. Miss Buxton, why are you going to London? For London, Mr Keen… and the Crystal Palace. Oh the Great Exhibition. I should have imagined that. So why only 23 minutes? 22 now. Time is fast, Miss Buxton; if you slow down, you are left behind. I hope you are aware of this. 22 minutes before we arrive at Euston station. But it was the Crystal Palace that Florence had long desired to see. Yes, she had read about the innumerable amount of things from the future and wonders of the world all contained in one place: the Crystal Palace. She had promised she would not miss anything, not even the tiniest hairpin from who knows which unpronounceable land. But the Crystal Palace… Florence saw it on the newspaper the morning after the opening ceremony. It was on the first page of every paper. It was the only news to tell and talk about. On the morning of the first day of May, Her Majesty Queen Victoria and Prince Albert had finally opened the doors to the Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of all Nations and people from all over the globe had travelled to Hyde Park to wonder at the beauty of the imposing building and the wonders it housed. In her mind, she’d been there a thousand times. She had no doubt: it had to be the Crystal Palace itself the greatest wonder of all. She could feel the sun reflected by the glittering walls, confusing her perceptions as she searched for an end to what looked like an immense crystal house. It was said to be four times the length of St. Paul’s Cathedral, but it surely seemed much much bigger with its three stages side walls and a grandiose transept in the middle, full-grown elm trees enclosed within, and light, light coming from every angle. The absurdity of its proportion did not compare to the absurdity of its structure – what laws had been broken in order to make such a gigantic building made of glass stand? It will stand, had promised Mr Paxton, nine months before the opening ceremony. And he knew his plan had to work. But maybe Mr Paxton was not only an architect; he was a magician who put cast iron pillars and girders underneath 300,000 glass sheets, the largest ever produced. Who would have thought? When the wind blew in Hyde Park, the Crystal Palace kept on standing, magnificent and proud, in front of thousands of eyes. Florence didn’t understand what was exactly that drew her interest.

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Was it the mixture of light and colours she was certain to find walking the nave of the exhibition? Was it the latest inventions that all the newspapers had said would leave anyone speechless? Was it the chance to walk from one country to another? It was difficult to tell. She wanted to enter the Grand Entrance and get lost in there, under a transparent roof, being inside but feeling outside. Miss Buxton? I’m afraid I can’t solve the mystery, Mr Keen. Forget about the mystery now. I’d like to know, Mr Keen. …I build railways and trains. Do you? Ever heard of Mr Robert Stephenson? The railway man? I’m his assistant. You understand now why it’s relatively easy for me to tell, trains are… Miss Buxton, you should take a look… This is it. The train lost its velocity and soon it was possible to detect the presence of many houses in the distance. Their dark brick colours welcomed the arrival of the steamy locomotive and led it towards its final destination. Florence searched for familiar images but everything was new. The station was bigger with its large wrought iron roof and busier than that in York; so many people everywhere. Even the sky was different; was it brighter? Less foggy? She took a deep breath and let the air penetrate her lungs. The smells were rich and almost impossible to define. Then the conductor shouted London Euston Station, our final destination and everyone was eager to get off the train, eager to get in the city. Don’t worry, Miss Buxton, it won’t disappoint. He waited for her to step off the wagon, without losing his confident smile not for a second. They walked beside each other through the Great Hall. Florence’s eyes wandered in every direction. Outside the hall, Mr Keen stopped in front of a Brougham carriage. Miss Buxton, do you see those four columns? That’s the Euston arch; you need to walk through it. (He bowed and hopped on the carriage) It’s still sunny and warm; I encourage you to take a walk. Goodbye, Mr Keen! (Shouted Florence) Next time will be my second time! Welcome to London, Miss Buxton! And he disappeared in the traffic. The columns. Only few more steps. A white majestic arch and beyond

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the beginning of the city. She didn’t want to waste time, she didn’t want to be left behind. Florence advanced at fast pace and no hesitation passed the Euston Arch. There, the people, the noise, the carriages, the traffic, the sounds, they all walked her into London, to its tall brick buildings, royal parks, busy taverns, modern shops and, finally, to the Crystal Palace and the adventure she had been waiting for.

COMMENTARY

Writing Faster Than Time has been almost an adventure. Everything began with the Crystal Palace. Architects still talk about the Crystal Palace every now and then, and that’s exactly how I had heard about it, a couple of years ago, from the mentioning of an architect. My initial understanding of it was of a gigantic building with the likes of the Versailles Palace… quite wrong and very misleading. A year later I read a novel which happened to mention the Crystal Palace and although it was a rather fictionalised portrayal of the competition for its building, I did manage to grasp a better view of what it really was. And because I had then become intrigued with it, I did a little research (thank you Wikipedia). Few months later, the opportunity to use this mysterious building came along, for the year of its construction (1851) was suitable for the course requirements. I quickly discovered that the Crystal Palace not only did not exist anymore (contrary to my belief) but it was such a great institution that there was plenty of material to research, both printed and online. It was great news: soon I was able to learn the whole story of it, of its designer, the engineers involved, the construction process, its materials, and so on. I immediately realized it was a symbol of innovation, of mechanical and engineering progress, it was the result of the Industrial Revolution and its role had been no less than the home of the Great Exhibition, the first World’s Fair. The most useful source of information was the V&A Museum (which had been built with the earnings from the Great Exhibition) where I was able to find objects that had been exposed during the Exhibition, letters, drawings and

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testimonials regarding the event; same for the Science Museum, where some of the inventions from the time are still exposed. The immense amount of material slowed down the writing of the story because, as it often happens when writing about a time and a place that don’t belong to you, I wanted to know more and more. I took a little trip to Crystal Palace in South London where the building was moved from Hyde Park at the closing of the Great Exhibition but not much is left of it after the big fire that destroyed it in 1939; only a tiny museum remains. By pure chance, I had the most exciting material of the century in my hands to work with. The idea of progress kept popping up in my head. What was progress in the Victorian Era and how did it affect people? I still didn’t have a story line, and perhaps answering that question was going to give me one. The first railway, just a decade ago, had definitely begun to transform the lives of Victorian people, connecting not only city to city (or cities to London), but also the countryside to the urban centres. It was certainly a revolution: now people were able to travel, easily and fast. I therefore started to learn about the history of the railway, I became familiar with names like Robert Stephenson and Charles Fox, railway engineers who gave birth to the intricate English railway system and connected England to Scotland. I gave the train a role within the story, as both a symbol of progress and a mean towards it. Finally, I wanted a woman to be the protagonist. A woman ahead of her time, fascinated with things that are not normally for ladies, not afraid to board a train and who did not understand why a lady shouldn’t be going to London on her own. She’s a woman who doesn’t fully comprehend the world she lives in, because she’s a step ahead. The parallel between Florence and the train lies in the fact that they both represent the progress and are both running against time towards the future.

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WA L K I ES

WAL K I E S

by Jack Houston

I come out of my flat, dog on leash, and go to the end of the road, a small road packed end to end with cars, where there is a fence with a gate that leads to Millfields Park. Spread in front of me is over three hundred acres of green space. I turn right and walk toward a group of mature plane trees that form a perfect circle – twelve of them planted like a clock-face back at the turn of the last century. I stand slap bang in the middle and wonder if, like Lemn Sissay says, we ‘are time machines, like the trees. We hold the past within us, the generations that came before us within our cell structure.’ These trees are all at least fifty metres tall. There are old photos of them looking squat and young back in the twenties. There’s something magically man-made about a circle of trees sitting in the middle of a field of grass, as if they’d been planted there for some purpose other than ornament. But Ralph, my dog, has no time for such musings, and leads me over toward the canal. We walk onto the tow-path and across an old stone bridge. The river Lee (or Lea) runs past here from the Chiltern Hills to Bow Creek, where it joins the mighty Grand Union Canal and flows on to the Thames. It was being written about way back when … In his 1596 poem ‘Prothalamion’, Edmund Spenser refers to ‘… two swans of goodly hue / Come softly swimming down along the Lee’. There are still swans along this stretch of water now, getting up to their romantic metaphoricals, all love-heart shaped neck twinings and whatnot. More recently, when writing about the Lee, the Chinese dissident poet Yang Lian, who settled up the road and wrote about the area and his feelings of belonging and estrangement here, has ‘the boats in my body / jostling against each other, their keels fused. / When the wild goose cries, the city stuck to my eardrum / flies elsewhere, a geography light as a wreck.’ There are two swans and a plump of geese lazily floating along on the canal this morning, so I can take my pick.

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WA L K I ES

WAL K I E S

by Jack Houston

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Lian says, ‘a red brick wall is like a line running parallel to time’ and here I feel I’ve found my own red brick wall that runs like a line cutting off another age. Through a doorway cut into it are the Middlesex Filter Beds, and as I walk in it all kicks off. A Blue Tit leaps up onto a branch and goads a rival with a swift whistle. Rising to the bait, his opponent leaps to confront him and is swiftly followed by three or four friends or enemies; my knowledge of Blue Tit politics not being wide enough to be able to tell. All this happens in the blink of an eye, whereas there have been waterworks on this site since 1707 – over three hundred years. Though it was not until the 1852 Metropolis Water Act, with its ‘provision for securing the supply to the Metropolis of pure and wholesome water’, that this place really came into its own. Blue Tits are another matter of course. Vicious little bastards. They knew how to build things, though, the Victorians. All that’s left now comes from them; the earlier waterworks forgotten in the mists of time, or more likely under the new works that have been laid on top. The Victorian works are still in evidence – the tracks where they’d fill carts with sand and gravel before moving them up and down are still here, running under Ralph’s feet and mine. There are six beds, sunk into the ground, running round a central hub. These beds would be filled with the aforementioned sand and gravel; then water would be pumped on top to filter through, making it safe to drink. Now they’ve all been reclaimed by nature. In each of them now lies ‘water [that] dives back into the ancient hearing of the marshes / water probably weary of flowing too’ I shouldn’t doubt, but then ‘water tells nothing’. This stuff certainly isn’t saying much; there’s no sound but the odd rustle of reed. The water just sits here feeding a range of rushes, trees and other wetland plant life. Right now a scattering of pinkish Cuckoo Flowers are signalling that it is springtime. I’ve been warned, though, not to pick them, and certainly not to take any home. For Cuckoo Flowers are sacred to fairies and, what with us having a new baby indoors, it’s better to be safe than sorry. Ahead of me a group of people have converged on the track-way, all of them seem to be wearing at least one item of sand-coloured Rohan-branded outdoor clothing. And they’re all staring intently, some with binoculars, up at a tree to our left. I come up alongside, keeping an eye on the dogs they’ve got milling about. ‘What you all looking at?’ I ask the assembled. ‘Over there,’ says one, in a stage-whisper. He points at a nearby tree.

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I stare at the tree. ‘I can’t see anything,’ I say, remembering to stage-whisper. ‘Here,’ says the one who gave me the initial direction, the one I now assume is my mate, ‘try looking through these.’ He hands me a pair of fancy-looking, heavy binoculars. ‘That tree there,’ he continues. ‘Not that one; that one. There, go up to about the middle, then along the branch on the right. What you’re looking for looks like part of the tree.’ I wonder to myself how, if it looks like part of the tree I’m looking at, I am supposed to know when I’ve seen it? And then I see it: mottled brown, striped to look exactly like the tree branch itself. I only think I know I’ve seen it when it moves a wing slightly and the crowd of twitchers all gasp in unison. ‘What is it?’ He sighs the kind of sigh reserved for the expert explaining something to the novice. ‘That,’ he says, ‘is a Nightjar. One of the rarest birds in Britain.’ ‘Oh,’ I reply. To be honest, I’m not surprised it’s rare. There could be one of them on every tree branch in the UK and few of us would be any the wiser. But my new pal goes on to tell me a little about their feeding habits, that they silently fly after moths at dusk and that the male of the species has a call that goes, ‘Twoo-twoo-twoo in a rising pattern’, and I feel that I’ve not just made one new friend but two. ‘Thanks’. I return the guy’s binoculars and continue through the filter beds. As I get to the end, a roar begins to float in on the air; a roar like a riot, like two or three hundred full-grown geezers having at it. I wrap Ralph’s lead a little tighter around my fist. All of a sudden I feel nervous. Around the corner to the marsh comes a large shaven-headed gentleman wearing tracksuit bottoms, an England T-shirt, and a pair of prison-white Nike trainers. A slight scowl is cut into his features; I imagine it to be permanent, but when he approaches and sees I have my dog on a lead, he whistles and his, what looks like a pink-nosed Pitt, comes running to him. ‘Trouble is he?’ He nods at Ralph. ‘Can be, yeah.’ Ralph has his hackles up. ‘This one’s too friendly sometimes.’ He nods down at the dog sitting patiently and calmly by his side. Ralph starts to growl. ‘Sorry,’ I say as we pass. ‘No trouble,’ the man replies, smiling.

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Out on the marsh, ‘where feet sink in an inch’, there are two or three hundred blokes, and about fifty women, running around and screaming at each other. Football. What better way to sweat out a hangover? I’m not sure. I prefer to lie on a sofa groaning, but each to their own. On a lamppost as I walk past is a Clapton FC sticker. CLAPTON FC ULTRAS: EAST LONDON ANTIFA. Though not quite as local as their moniker might suggest (they play at a ground in Forest Gate) Clapton FC are still one of the few football teams with a dedicated anti-fascist following, or the only one I’ve ever heard of at any rate. And that following, going by the number of red and black scarves you see socially, is sizable round here. It’s great having all this green space to wander through, unencumbered by the bricks and concrete of the city where ‘walls feel like they’re closing in’. All this grass used to be Lammas land, meaning that local residents had the right to graze their animals on it during winter. And come to think of it, Ralph has been at the grass a bit of late – maybe he’s a bit bunged up. There are now several conservation groups dedicated to keeping the marsh green, mainly because of the recent Olympic developments and people’s distrust of the local council’s promises to return land used to build temporary carparks and what-not. Some of them even claim to be re-formations of previous ‘defence committees’ from way back in 1892! Good on ‘em, I say. Turning to the right, and onto the canal, where it’s all ‘gravelled towpaths, breeze block, corrugation; // the city’s arse on show, its face elsewhere’, I spot Flee’s boat. She’s been on this stretch of river a while; always having to move up and down it,as she doesn’t have a permanent mooring, so we’re only sometime neighbours. I knock on one of the portholes of her solid-iron boat. Dunk, dunk, dunk. I wait on the towpath, moving back out of the way as a fluoro’d up family come hurtling past on bicycles. There’s a clank from inside the boat and the hatch opens. Flee comes up on deck with her dog, Cosmo. Cosmo and Ralph eye each other warily; they haven’t always been the best of friends. Flee’s eyes are bleary and she takes a while to tie her dreadlocks up on top of her head before we exchange tittle-tattle and gossip about mutual friends until I feel a vibration in my pocket. My phone says: Fancy a pint? It’s a text from a mutual friend, Adam, who’s brought his family down to my local. I ask Flee if she’s game. She is, so goes back inside to put some trousers on. As we’re walking back up the towpath, I see a woman walking

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toward us on the canal path. She ‘lifts the hood of the pram, attaches / a Chinesey floral scarf to the rim to cover // the opening behind which a baby sleeps / as the poem sleeps behind the page’. It is then that I realise it is not a figure from a Mimi Khalvati poem, but my own wife and child. ‘Thought I’d come out and join you,’ says Morwenna, ‘as the weather’s so nice.’ Flee and Morwenna greet each other and have a coo over the baby. We walk together back toward the pub, Morwenna complaining that she hadn’t had enough of a walk yet. The Princess of Wales (used to be the Prince, but was renamed after her death) is on the river, and as Jo Bell would have it, ‘there’s nothing finer than a pub by water’, and I’m like to agree. There used to be pubs lining the canal, busy catering to the men who floated various wares on the back of boats, pulled along the river by horses, all the way from here to Hertfordshire. Many of these pubs have now closed, but the few that remain do quite well from the influx of people taking to the canal. They’re no longer here for the horse-drawn transport of coal, timber and copper, but for residence, leisure and because, this close to London, having somewhere that isn’t all traffic and rush (the buses going over the Lea Bridge notwithstanding) is now more precious than it ever was. This particular pub still cuts some of the same aspect it must have done when it was built, as the historical photos of the place hung inside reveal. Its gables jut out from next to the water and make you feel like you’ve discovered another secret corner of the capital. Inside the pub Adam and Karen are there with their two daughters, Alice and Gabrielle. We order drinks and sit watching the ducks float up and down on the canal outside, with ‘a stripe of Primark colour on each wing’. We’re being hypnotised by the slow flow of the water toward the weir when we’re all startled by ‘a colour bomb, a bright grenade // that blows the place apart’. ‘What was that?’ says Adam. ‘Kingfisher,’ says Flee. ‘There’s been a few of them around recently. We’re lucky to see it, they’re so fast.’ We sit, supping at our drinks and scanning the hedgerow where we think the Kingfisher flew, but don’t catch sight of it again. Evening begins to fall.

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COMMENTARY

In his book The Writer as Walker (Oldcastle, Herts, 2012) Merlin Coverley writes of walking… becoming the means through which human beings learn to understand the world about them…in the oral histories and texts through which such actions are recorded’(p.2). Walkies is a semi-fictional account of a walk I regularly take with my dog around a Victorian water treatment plant near where I live.The piece is based on Iain Sinclair’s Lights Out for the Territory (Granta, London, 1997), in which the author attempts in one chapter to ‘walk out from Hackney to Greenwich Hill, and back along the River Lea’ (p.1). There is even a pit-bull, though my one doesn’t seem as if ‘it would probably perish by attacking its own reflection’ (p.59). It has also been influenced by Patrick Wright’s, A Journey Through Ruins (Paladin, London, 1991) in which the author also walks round Hackney, describing the first salvos in the gentrification of the southern parts of Hackney, ‘the early settlers are pioneers of a larger revaluation they may detest and even manage to steer for a bit, but that is soon enough sweeping over their ears’(p.148), a process that has now spread borough-wide and beyond. The jury is still out on whether a dog-walker can truly be described as a flâneur. Baudelaire even talks of a person with an ‘aim loftier than that of a mere flâneur…looking for that quality which you must allow me to call ‘modernity’’ (The Painter of Modern Life, Trans:1964, p.12). My aim was somewhat less lofty than any of this, as on my walks I am largely looking with an eye to be picking up Ralph’s doings. It was interesting to try and discover how many other poets had written or spoken about the area in which I live. I knew Lemn Sissay was a local, as I’d seen him present his Poet Tree film at the annual tree circle cinema. Jo Bell isn’t actually local at all, but as ‘canal laureate’ I felt her remit extended to all canals everywhere; they are, after all, a uniquely homogenous environment. Mimi Khalvati lives at the other end of the marsh in St James Street, Walthamstow. And Yiang Lian lives in Stoke Newington. I liked the idea of mixing poetry with bird-watching and dog-walking to give a flavour of the area in which I was walking around in. I attempted to capture an easy-going, familiar voice, ‘their romantic metaphoricals, all love-heart shaped neck twinings and whatnot’, ‘brought his family down to my local’, ‘I’m like to agree’ and ‘few of us would be any the wiser’ being examples of this. I also used the same speech marks for the quotes as for the direct

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speech as I wanted it to seem as if I was as much in conversation with the writers I quoted as the people I spoke to. ‘Instead of seeking to change their environment,’ writes Merlin Coverley in Psychogeography (Pocket Essentials, Herts, 2010), ‘psychogeographers in their contemporary incarnation seem satisfied merely to experience and record it.’ And while I could be accused of this, I feel I have managed to do justice to the area and my experience of walking there. I was particularly pleased to be able to include the appearance of a Kingfisher thanks to a Jo Bell poem. In truth, I’ve never seen one on that part of the Lee. The bird’s fleeting flight will have to remain testament to the power of the imagination.

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T H E TEEN EPIC OF A BSO LU TE BEGINNERS

TH E TE EN EP IC O F A B SO L U TE B EG IN NE RS

by Kashta Wallace

“This teenage ball had had a real splendour in the days when the kids discovered that, for the first time since centuries of kingdom-come, they’d money, which hitherto had always been denied to us at the best time in life to use it…” Colin MacInnes’ 1959 “teenage epic” was the first of its kind, documenting the life of a teenager growing up in post World War II London and experiencing a city that was beginning to form into the multi-cultural metropolis it is today. London as presented in Absolute Beginners is a city undergoing a period of flux and uncertainty, underpinned by post-war reconstruction and the subsequent migration of colonial subjects from the Commonwealth. Though Britain is not at that time a nation untouched by immigration in its history, the arrival of African, Asian and Caribbean migrants in the early 1950s changed the appearance of London in a way that previous migrants had not. As many twenty-first century readers may be aware, and as explored in Absolute Beginners, the arrival of “coloured” migrants caused great tension and animosity between the natives and new arrivals, with the Notting Hill Riots of 1958 culminating from these. The riots, described by Mark Olsen for The Independent in 2008 as “the worst racial violence ever seen in Britain”, form the climatic piece in MacInnes’ novel and in many ways are the ‘coming of age’ moment for the narrator as Britain’s identity crisis is internally reciprocated in the teenager. This new influx of culture, not to mention the influence of the now all-powerful American cultural machine, is a key historical moment in the novel, which not only makes it a powerful novel in terms of content, but also a useful artifact when looking at post-war Britain;especially considering how topical its issues were at the time of publication. Placing himself in the shoes of the unnamed nineteen year-old narrator; MacInnes explores the various tensions that existed in the inner-city

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T H E TEEN EPIC OF A BSO LU TE BEGINNERS

TH E TE EN EP IC O F A B SO L U TE B EG IN NE RS

by Kashta Wallace

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streets of London, through a sort of documentary-come-bildungsroman. This takes us through the narrator’s beloved ‘Napoli’, the “stagnating slum” that is based on Notting Dale according to Jerry White, to other distinct areas in London, most notably Soho. As mentioned in Nick Bentley’s comprehensive essay on Absolute Beginners, the novel “represents a hybrid form in 1950s writing that can best be described as an ‘experimental realism’”which combines a typical realist narrative with an experimental innercity tale. MacInnes, who himself belonged to the margins of mainstream society as a hard-drinking homosexual, uses this ‘hybrid’ form to present, for the first time in literature, a documentary-style narrative detailing the subcultures existing in London in the 1950s. Through the teenage first-person narrator, a freelance photographer and our street-savvy guide through the streets of London, he introduces us to a range of characters that, in their own way, represent a cross section of society. From foreign diplomats to overweight lesbian ‘ponces’ and all that fall in between, MacInnes casts his net wide over the city. While a modern reader is perhaps more aware of the themes and concepts explored in the novel as opposed to the mainstream 1950s readership MacInnes hoped to enlighten, the novel makes us all ‘absolute beginners’ in this new London that “exists in the gaps and shadows of more mainstream literary descriptions in the 1950s”. This novel, that was once an in-depth portrayal of contemporary London, is now a time capsule that captures the language, music and tone of one of the most significant periods in London’s history, giving an uncensored journey through the world that was fast on the way to becoming the one we know today. MacInnes’ narrator swaggers his way through the city, offering fresh observation through his teenage eyes, displaying his wit and bohemian outlook on life as he presents the ecology of London’s subcultures in the 1950s. In many ways he represents some of the ideals we may associate with the succeeding decade. His strong belief in racial and sexual equality and denial of the class structures that have characterised Britain in the previous decades remind us of the social and political movements of the 1960s. As a photographer, the narrator already has a history of documentation and presentation and his role invites direct comparison to that of the author MacInnes, who was a journalist as well as writer. The use of a photographer as a narrator also creates distance, akin to the traditional realist narrator, whose anthropological eye documents the events of the narrative and relays it to the reader. Yet, as explained in Nick Bentley’s essay, the potential scope

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for realism is displaced by the narrative voice itself, which adopts a language constructed by MacInnes to represent youth at the time. In order to successfully document this “un-silent teenage revolution”, it was paramount that it be presented by a member of this new class and not by an outsider looking in. Otherwise its credibility amongst the classes it discusses would be compromised. So the narrator speaks in a densely inventive teenage slang. His nuanced language, which boasts influences from the African-American jazz scene he is so fond of, is a reflection of his own and his generation’s disconnection from the generation before them. And at times the narrator seems to be directly addressing the reader. He seems self-aware and assured about his ideas and, sharing the author’s desire for his experiences and opinions to be conveyed to those who would otherwise be unaware. The intrusion of American culture into British culture appears in the use of terms like ‘cat’ and ‘dig’ stemming from the United States. Also the emergence of the jazz scene plays an important role in the narrative. For the narrator, the jazz scene represents a refreshing alternative to mainstream British society because it is a place where “no one, not a soul, cares what your class is, or what your race is, or what your income, or if you’re boy, or girl, or bent, or versatile, or what you are”. He is pleased to see that two characters he meets at the jazz club in Soho (Dean Swift and The Misery Kid) team up against racist Teddy Boys during the riots despite their conflicting tastes in jazz. It is no surprise that jazz music, with its distinct African American heritage and its unconventional style that promotes improvisation over traditional structure, is the genre of choice for the freelance photographer who in a similar way enjoys life best when free from the constraints of the adult world. As well as musical tastes, MacInnes also uses fashion tastes and style as an essential mode of characterisation. In Absolute Beginners, the teenage characters are able to show their newfound wealth and confidence through their trendy attire. The fact that the narrator can afford a “new Roman suit” shows that he now not only has a keen eye for continental fashion trends; he also has the means to purchase what he wants. The power of the pound and the rise of capitalism are also depicted in Absolute Beginners as usurpers of British traditions, and in one of the teenager’s many exchanges, this one with a “boardroom number” at Dido Lament’s party he emphatically states: “Look! England was an empire – right? Now it isn’t any longer – yes? So all it’s got to live on will be brains and labour, i.e. scientists and engi-

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neers and businessmen and the multitudes of authentic toilers.” While the older characters and readers may scoff at his inaccuracies and propensity to delve into a/political discussions, his comments on the changing state of the country are not unsubstantiated. In Absolute Beginners, we get a sense that the younger characters are of a generation completely removed from their elders and this disconnection is shown in various ways. Despite being nicknamed “Blitz Baby” by his mother, as she had given birth to him during a German Air Raid on London during World War II, MacInnes’ narrator sees himself completely separate from the war, which for him is just the boring obsession of the older generation: “… “No stupid I mean the real war, you don’t remember.” “Well Vernon… I’m glad I didn’t. All you oldies certainly seem to keep it well in mind, because every time I open a newspaper… or go to the Odeon, I hear nothing but war, war, war.” In these exchanges between narrator and his family, one can see clearly the fragmented nature of family, which is divided into those who experienced the war and those who did not. It is symbolic that the narrator, the only one who cannot remember the war, is also the only one to move out of the family home in Pimlico and live independently. This suggests that the traumatic events of the Second World War have haunted the older generation to a state of stasis. War and politics are presented as paralysing entities, starkly contrasting with the freedom of being a teenager in the 1950s and the liberating power of jazz. Colin MacInnes invites us to compare the narrator to his older half-brother, Vernon, whose ideas and appearance are seen as “prehistoric” by the narrator, despite only being a few years his senior. The huge gulf between the two brothers’ ‘social consciousness,’ despite their close proximity, is telling and shows how new the teenage phenomenon was in Britain and the extent to which these young people were cut off from those who were even born a even few years before them. Clearly unhappy at home, the narrator finds his freedom living in ‘Napoli’ as a photographer, beside pimps, rent boys and ‘coloureds’ among other ‘numbers’, while forming an allegiance with other, seemingly likeminded teenagers. The Wiz, who is the narrator’s closest ally until he begins to support the Far Right Keep Britain White movement in light of the riots, is for most of the novel leading this ‘un-silent teenage revolution’. He makes his money, and lots of it apparently, by means of pimping and various other get rich schemes, thus highlighting a loss of innocence among

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the post World War II generation, as well as showing the multitude of opportunities that existed for them to make money, whether legally or illegally. A middle aged conservative reader in the 1950s would have every reason to fear this new class, with characters like Wiz representing a group that is not only increasing in money and power, but is also fearless, with anarchistic tendencies and a general disdain for the established order. Although the narrator identifies primarily with his age group, he is unlike Wiz in the sense that he is open to building relationships with adults. While there is a shared animosity towards the more conservative adult characters, MacInnes’ narrator is not against the idea of making genuine friendships with some of the left-field adult characters that operate on the margins of mainstream society. Call-me-Cobbler and The ex-Deb-of-LastYear are media figures and represent the rise in celebrity culture that would come into fruition towards the end of the twentieth century, with reality TV, like the fictional ITV production Junction! becoming one of the dominant forms of popular entertainment. This promise of independence and prosperity, however, does not extend to all of the young characters, as MacInnes opts to balance out some of the more glamorous aspects of youth culture in the 1950s with the ugly reality of living in a nation that is deeply divided by deep racial prejudices. For Mr Cool, a mixed-raced Londoner of both English and Caribbean ancestry, his experience of living in London in the 1950s is a lonely, isolated and hostile one in spite of his English roots: “You- you’re one of us. You’re not a Spade, exactly…” … “If it comes to any trouble,” he said, “I am. And the reason I am is that they’ve never questioned me, never refused me, always accepted me… Even though I am part white? But your people… No. The part of me that belongs to you, belongs to them.” In what is described by Jerry White as the teenagers’ “toughest trial”, the characters in Absolute Beginners are forced to choose sides in the wake of the racial violence that descends upon the local area. This battle between young, working-class white men like Ed the Ted and the new ‘Spade’ inhabitants in Notting Hill and the surrounding areas is believed to stem from tensions involving competition in the housing market as well as anxieties held on behalf of the white men on increasing interracial relationships. The descent into violence, as depicted in the final two sections of the novel, is the moment where the narrator finally enacts his new jazz-age moral code; coming to the defence of his ‘coloured’ neighbours and coming

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into direct conflict with ‘his own’ people. While this may been seen as treachery, MacInnes successfully conveys the distinct differences between the narrator and characters like Ed the Ted, aligning him closer to the ‘Spades’ then the white working-class Teds. In these section, MacInnes explores the role in which class has to play in the riots, identifying it as a major contributing factor in the violence: “But at the Bush, I was amazed. Because when I crossed over, beyond the Green, to the middle-class section outside our area – all was peace and quiet and calm and as-you-were-before.” Understandably, the narrator finds this stark contrast a shocking one, that reveals another layer to the social crisis that is being played out in front of the narrator’s eyes: not only is this battle between black and white, it is also a battle between poor and poor, and the middle class spectators have the luxury to observe from their safe homes. This episode of bitter violence effectively destroys the narrator’s love affair with the city, with all hopes of a modern, multicultural, free city being compromised by the acts of the Teds and their allies. While there are glimmers of hope, with the narrator witnessing acts of decency and bravery from older white people like the shop keepers, and his long-awaited moment of intimacy with Suzette; the apparent triumph of bigotry and ignorance seems to have scarred the narrator so deeply he sees that the only option left for him is to leave London for places where he will not be confronted with such brutal racism. MacInnes’ narrative in Absolute Beginners reveals an otherwise hidden network of cultures and subcultures all working at once. Some co-existing peacefully, some exploiting others, and, as the final parts of the novel document, sometimes clashing to devastating effect. As a novel, MacInnes succeeds in delivering a confident, fresh and insightful piece of literature that may also double up as a historical artefact that offers an, albeit dramatised, account of life for many young people growing up in 1950s London. .

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PAT R ICK H A M I LTO N’S

PATRI C K HA M ILTO N’S

INT ERWA R L O NDO N

I NT ERWAR L O N DO N

by Kayleigh Kember

The interwar years were a time of great social, political and technological changes. The Great War was a factor in these developments. Socially, women were given a more active role in traditionally male-dominated environments in response to the demand for men on the front line; and attitudes to family and sexuality were being challenged in response to the liberated mood that swept the country in the face of war. The interwar years were therefore a time of instability as some sought to reinstate the traditional Victorian values in place before the war alongside a generation that had experienced growing liberty during the conflict. This is the contextual backdrop to Patrick Hamilton’s ‘The Midnight Bell’ (1929) which is collected as a trilogy in Twenty Thousand Streets Under The Sky. It tells the story of three characters, Bob, Jenny and Ella, whose lives intertwine at The Midnight Bell public house and the first volume, named after the pub, is about Bob. The title of the whole volume suggests the expansive and potentially overwhelming nature of London city life which Hamilton explores through several key themes. Though told with humour, his stories explore London as a city of alienation, dissolution, crime and drifting in which public spaces, such as the streets of the title and the pub, become a stage where these experiences coalesce and are enacted. Alienation and social performance become a key mode in which Bob’s relation to London can be understood. German sociologist Georg Simmel’s The Metropolis and Mental Life (1903) is a theoretical analysis of the effect of the growing urban environment on society and the individual. Simmel addresses several key aspects of the urban environment that he believes affect the individual the most strongly: money, technology, constant stimuli and population size. He then considers key ways in which the individual attempts to resist the disturbing

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PAT R ICK H A M I LTO N’S

PATRI C K HA M ILTO N’S

INT ERWA R L O NDO N

I NT ERWAR L O N DO N

by Kayleigh Kember

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nature of the urban experience. He also identifies London as a prime example of such a city, dividing its inhabitants – “through the entire course of English history London has never acted as the heart of England but often as its intellect and always as its money bag.” In many ways Hamilton’s tale enacts this as we see Bob’s relationship with his money and intellectual ambitions change disastrously over time.The psychological effect of London as a vast metropolis becomes key to Bob’s narrative. Indeed the sprawling and alienating nature of such a large city is hinted at in the title of the trilogy and is emphasised throughout the book. Simmel understands the nature of the city as a sprawling and shifting environment both internally and externally: the “psychological foundation, upon which the metropolitan individuality is erected, is the intensification of emotional life due to the swift and continuous shift of external and internal stimuli.” London writing is often associated with the walker or flâneur and Hamilton makes use of this figure throughout The Midnight Bell; however he makes key changes to the archetype. Traditionally a member of the leisured class and aligned with a relaxed observation of modern, urban experience, the flâneur is an important spectator and commentator on the city. This history of the flâneur is made apparent in the beginning of the novel in regards to Bob’s literary ambitions, the security of money that he has saved up and the leisurely way in which he walks: “This was in accordance with a now almost regular Thursday afternoon routine. Regent’s Park, tea in the West End, a visit to the Capitol or Plaza, dinner at Lyons’ Corner House, a walk, and home.” Bob however is a working class man impersonating a gentleman, whose exploration of the city becomes increasingly driven by his search for a commodified relationship with the prostitute Jenny . The episode in which he searches for Jenny is made particularly immediate through the use of the second person narrator who explains how the walker obsessively defers his sense of satisfaction onto the next street and then the next: “Then your eighth will probably bring you to some short cut, or other topographically excusable ninth, and unless you are very careful you will find yourself calmly attacking your nineteenth.” Hamilton heightens the effect and London’s streets become an unending maze as Bob’s search becomes a frenzy. This is far removed from the leisurely walks that we see him indulge in the beginning of the novel and contrasts with Jenny’s walks through the city. It is complicated to apply the flâneur archetype to women because of the association of prostitution with

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streetwalking. What appears to be drifting from place to place in The Midnight Bell is not only compulsive searching in Bob’s case but also a form of commerce in Jenny’s. Bob’s walking at the beginning of the novel is part of a performance of a role he wants to inhabit. Simmel understands performance as a key way in which city inhabitants attempt to reaffirm their individuality against what he terms “being levelled, swallowed up in the social-technological mechanism.” Thus Bob’s behaviour can be understood in relation to urban performance and in this way he becomes alienated from his inner self, Hamilton peppers The Midnight Bell with examples of this. Bob begins as an aspiring writer, though Hamilton puts this forth as a performance – “Like an idle playgoer… even more interested in the names and picturesque personalities than in the actual achievements thereof.” Bob’s interest in literature is an attitude he has adopted to differentiate himself from those around him. All the characters in The Midnight Bell seem to have what Simmel terms, a “protective layer” that seems to be a form of self-delusion or false modesty. The pub becomes a key arena for this as characters are drawn in and Hamilton shows us their behaviour with a critical eye; the patrons are most poignantly depicted. For example Mr Wall not only makes many jokes but also repeatedly performs them “until you had fully registered it.” This repetition becomes part of Hamilton’s characterisation of him. However, Ella’s behaviour can be seen in light of self-preservation for the world in which she operates is full of contradiction. She is a working girl, a barmaid, in a male environment that expects her to be both maternal and sexual. Thus “[she] adopted one good-humoured, non-committal and chiding attitude to all.” and successfully displays a benign and friendly air. Yet The Metropolis and Mental Life does not only focus on the negative impact of urban life and Simmel argues that that the city can also have a positive individualising effect on the people that inhabit it. However, this individuality can be shown to be superficial: “This leads ultimately to the strangest eccentricities, to specifically metropolitan extravagances… the meaning of which is no longer to be found in the content of such activity itself but rather in its being a form of `being different’ – of making oneself noticeable.” Bob’s literary ambitions can be seen in this light. Although he reads to distinguish himself he has more or less abandoned the act of writing and using his literary knowledge. His reading is just a superficial way to differentiate himself from others in idle talk, “This was Bob’s secret – his

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inner life – the derivation of all those queer reticences and mysteries which so puzzled Ella when she saw volumes of Gibbon, or copies of John O’ London’s Weekly, lying on his bedroom table.” His literary interests work on the surface, which makes Bob somewhat of an enigma to Ella, but he does not gain any satisfaction from literature apart from the difference to others it affords. Hamilton reinforces this idea of surface performance for all the characters – when Jenny admits to stealing, writes: “Her telling him that she was a cheat and a liar did not mitigate or conceal, for a single instant, the fact that she was a cheat and a liar.” Jenny uses performance simultaneously to reveal and conceal herself, and Bob enables this with his own idealised image of her. As well as performance Simmel states that intellect becomes a key way in which the city dweller functions in the urban environment. He notes “the profound disruption with which the fluctuations and discontinuities of the external milieu threaten it. Instead of reacting emotionally, the metropolitan type reacts primarily in a rational manner, thus creating a mental predominance through the intensification of consciousness.” This is certainly evidenced in Bob, who has a heightened self-consciousness and is constantly thinking about how others perceive him from the outside: “He was proud to be seen with her.” Though Bob often acts irrationally, he constantly justifies his behaviour rationally. Moreover Hamilton presents this as a trait of many of the characters in the novel: Mr Sounder must calculate his chances of getting drinks out of fellow patrons and Bob’s careful manipulation of customers to get tips. As shown in the above examples money is often a source of this hyper-rationalised behaviour. Simmel states: “ money, with its colourlessness and its indifferent quality, can become a common denominator of all values, it becomes the frightful leveller – it hollows out the core of things, their peculiarities, their specific values and their uniqueness and incomparability.” Hamilton presents us with relationships that are based on money, that of customer and merchant but also that of friends and lovers. This is most obviously seen in Bob’s relationship to Jenny. Bob judges his relationship with Jenny in terms of money as much as she does: “Four pounds a week! How meagre was his own ten shillings now.” He feels that love can be quantified in money and therefore he must provide for her more than her other suitors and clients. However, it is also an attitude that Bob internalises and applies to himself: “Not that Bob had any greed for money itself

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… It merely stood between him and the dire need to toil, and made a man of him.” Bob is not interested in what his savings are able to afford him but in the social status and idea of money in itself. However capital is not only seen as a universal solvent, with the ability to ease interaction amid social positions, but also of crime in The Midnight Bell. Crime and immorality pervade the cityscape and the public house setting of The Midnight Bell. It invades the safe environments – “The Midnight Bell was tonight visited by the Illegal Operation … For he never told you his name, but when he had had more whisky than was good for him he invariably began to swagger confidentially about his Illegal Operation. By performing one of these [operations] he had abruptly terminated his career as a medical student and served six months in prison. This was his tragedy.” Characters such as the prostitutes and Illegal Operation cross the threshold into the pub. But whereas Jenny’s entrance evokes a “brief hush and hiatus”, and although their crimes exist in the same realm of sexuality and morality, Illegal Operation is largely accepted as part of the pub’s social world. His crime is never stated but his moniker and previous status implies that he performed abortions. Pugh notes that the 1929 Life Preservation Act made it unlawful to terminate a pregnancy except to preserve the life of the mother. There was also a problematic approach to female prostitution. On the one hand these women were looked on as innocent victims and on the other they were seen as as criminals, “The assumption [was] that young working-class girls were ignorant and defenceless… But in fact those they sought to protect often did not act as if they were passive.” Hamilton presents a complex view of prostitution in the novella, showing Bob’s patronising pity and the initial discomfort of those in the pub while also allowing Jenny agency in her marginalised position. Simmel highlights the formation of groups in the city as protective: “a relatively small circle almost entirely closed against neighbouring foreign or otherwise antagonistic groups but [in which] the individual member has only a very slight area for the development of his own qualities.” The effects of the vast metropolis are seen locally as individuals modify their group behaviour and personal identity in order to obtain security and be safe. This is a key technique for prostitutes who are vulnerable to both their customers and those that criminalise their behaviour. Bob senses the loss of Jenny’s public persona in the bedroom scene when he finally visits Jenny at home. He feels more alienated from her as a prostitute in the social world of the

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pub than individually when he is able to separate her from her job. Jenny is alienated in the broader social world of the pub but depends on her persona as a prostitute and her prostitute friends when times are hard. Bob also benefits from this association later in the novel when he is robbed, so perhaps he is “one of us” as he fears. Hamilton’s complex and accepting characterisation shows that Jenny does have a group to depend on in this way whilst Bob’s more socially acceptable relationships are artificial and afford him no real support. For Simmel the metropolis can have a positive effect:“It is the function of the metropolis to make a place for the conflict and for the attempts at unification of both of these in the sense that its own peculiar conditions have been revealed to us as the occasion and the stimulus for the development of both.” However, this occurs only when individuals are able to create a unity from the fragmented nature of their experience. In Bob, Hamilton shows us a character incapable of unifying his experiences, distanced from his feelings through performance and excess rationality, self-identified through his money and possessions, and differentiating himself intellectually but superficially. Jenny is apparently the less secure and more alienated character but Hamilton reverses our assumptions and while Jenny succeeds, although manipulatively, Bob fails in his ambitions, and leaves the city to return to a life at sea.

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T H E NOV EL AND T H E CON T EMPO RARY WO RLD

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TH E N OVE L AN D THE C O N TEM PO RA RY WO RLD

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T H E NOV EL AND T H E CON T EMPO RARY WO RLD

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TH E N OVE L AN D THE C O N TEM PO RA RY WO RLD

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R AC E A ND G EN DER IN TO NI MO RRIS O N’S

R AC E AN D G E N DE R IN TO NI MO R RI S O N ’S

‘ A M ER C Y’

‘ A M ERC Y’

by Hannah Ponting

‘The explorers were men, the landholders and merchants men, the political leaders men, the military figures men. The very invisibility of women, the overlooking of women, is a sign of their submerged status. In this invisibility they were something like black slaves (and thus slave women faced a double oppression). The biological uniqueness of women, like skin color and facial characteristics for Negroes, became a basis for treating them as inferiors.’

Howard Zinn, A People’s History of the United States

Toni Morrison’s A Mercy is a novel that examines constructions of women’s gender and racial identity within a society that is a precursor of today’s contemporary world. Placing her novel in the period of early settlement in America, Morrison obliquely addresses the psychology of femininity in a postmodern world, and in her historical interpretation of women’s roles Morrison also frames the attitudes of contemporary black women within her text – “To be female in this place is to be an open wound that cannot heal”. By closely examining A Mercy and using critical perspectives from black American feminist writers, this essay will explore the ‘submerged status’ of women in general, and in particular the ‘double oppression’ of black women. “If the African American writer’s responsibility is to assume the task of recovering the ‘presence and heartbeat of the black people’ in America, her novels take that task of recovery seriously, involving a reconstruction, revisioning and revisiting of the past”. Morrison’s novels and critical essays have examined and questioned the racial sub-genres of American culture and the historical subject matter in A Mercy can be taken as a personal

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R AC E A ND G EN DER IN TO NI MO RRIS O N’S

R AC E AN D G E N DE R IN TO NI MO R RI S O N ’S

‘ A M ER C Y’

‘ A M ERC Y’

by Hannah Ponting

Howard Zinn, A People’s History of the United States

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examination into the consciousness of African-Americans. Her use of the slave narrative is one that focuses on the representation of black culture, especially in terms of black African-American women. It depicts the prejudice and racial repression of the black female population in America. Her character portrayals and multi-voiced narratives – moving from first to third person – speak on behalf of those who do not have a voice. Although the opening page of A Mercy begins with a character’s voice, it can be considered an admission from Morrison herself: “You can think what I tell you a confession, if you like, but one full of curiosities familiar only in dreams”, in that here she is speaking for black women who feel the structures of oppression deep within. The novel begins with Florens’s narrative voice and a longing for owning and wearing a pair of shoes. The shoes are symbolic of the creation of one’s femininity; they represent a longing for sexual freedom, while also representing female oppression. Florens’ mother discourages her from wearing shoes that are only suitable for a “Portuguese lady” rather than a black slave. Instead Florens is provided “with boots that fit a man and not a girl”. This act de-feminises Florens and dispenses with her sexuality. “In retrospective examination of the black female slave experience, sexism looms as large as racism as an oppressive force in the lives of black women”. The slave trade constantly exploited black women both physically and emotionally. Florens’ mother disagrees with her wearing of the heeled shoes, because they are not befitting for a black slave. However, this is not her only motive for wanting Florens to banish her “prettify ways”. As a child Florens was too young to understand that the “shoes of a loose woman, and a cloth around your chest did no good”; but her mother was all too aware that “the nakedness of the African female served as constant reminder of her sexual vulnerability”. This “sexual vulnerability” often led to the rape of black women at the hands of their white slave owners. Florens and her brother were born out of rapist hunger, and so too was Sorrow’s baby. In the novel Sorrow is portrayed as a somewhat complex character, “constantly misunderstood and mistreated by people around her”. This is particularly true of her white male counterparts. Sorrow is frequently raped by many of the males that encounter her, and constantly at the mercy of those in her environment. She is known as the “curly-haired goose girl”, who is lazy and useless at most things, bar sewing. Yet while Sorrow remains useless at domestic duties, it is

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her sex that gives her practical or instrumental value. Sorrow is used, sexually abused and discarded throughout the novel. This creates a consciousness of wilful incomprehension within Sorrow, which results in her choosing to separate herself from everyone except her “twin”. The fabrication of Sorrow’s twin is used as a coping mechanism and a foundation for her freedom. Morrison uses the ‘fractured psyche’ of Sorrow to signify the ‘stunted psychological growth’ of contemporary black women in America. While The Civil Rights Movement in America was seen as period of transition for the female population, it did not bring about total change for the consciousness or social standing of African-American women. The “devaluation of black womanhood [that] occurred as a result of the sexual exploitation of black women during slavery has not altered in the course of hundreds of years”. Post-war liberation movements aimed to eradicate social injustice and racial tensions. While they made gains in relation to white women and black men, African-American women were often still viewed as the subordinate other. Audre Lorde, a black feminist poet and essayist, captured the thought and expectations of black women during the 1960s and onwards. Lorde notes that she “was part of some group defined as other, deviant, inferior or just plain wrong”. Along with other black feminist writers, Lorde recognised that her “generation of black women […] had been taught to submit, accept sexual inferiority, and to be silent”. This repressed and submissive consciousness in black women can be traced in the themes of A Mercy. Morrison uses the past to represent these contemporary issues, exploring the inconsistencies and intersections between race, gender and class, and seeking to discover why black female oppression is still prevalent within the culture of the United States. In A Mercy Morrison is seen to represent all forms of female oppression; but there is a certain concern in her narrative that shows gender to be further divided in terms of race and class. Rebekka’s skin is white yet her gender prevents her from being accepted as equal to white men. Born of lower class parents, Rebekka’s only “prospects were [to be a] servant, prostitute, [or] wife”. Having been “shipped off ” by her father “to anyone who would book her passage”, Rebekka was purchased for a life of servitude and inequality. Even though Rebekka’s marriage was a happy one, her husband Jacob had acquired her through monetary means. He chose a woman that “saw to his needs”, was “capable” and who “took to chores” adequately. It is by these features that he considered this woman to be his wife and worthy

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of his respect. For Jacob a woman’s place is in the domestic setting, and it is this that constructs her femininity. Although Rebekka is considered to be ranked lower in status to the white man, she still has superiority over the female slaves that her husband owns and has the opportunity to embody white supremacy in the latter part of the novel. Once Rebekka loses her husband to the pox, she is left devastated and alone, and this is when she starts to exercise her power of superior authority over the females she once considered friends. Rebekka views these women as beneath her, “her heart is infidel”, and she no longer believes in anything or anyone. This division of female representation is categorised through the difference of race and gender. Femininity is thus established through the cultural understanding of race and class. This acts as a “double oppression” for black women, as they are already distinguished as lower in stature and therefore subservient because of their race. Morrison continually reinforces this characterisation of gender throughout the novel. Lina, although a slave, is for a time considered to be a friend and ally to Rebekka, insofar as they are both bound together by the mutual “promise and threat of men”. This alliance produces within Lina ideas of grandeur. She sees her status in the house as one of a higher rank compared to that of the other slaves, particularly Sorrow. Lina is judgemental towards Sorrow, yet their positions are equal since both are neither male nor white nor free. Lina is critical of Sorrow, distrusting her and feeling that she brings with her a “natural curse” that necessarily invokes trouble. Her hostility towards Sorrow can be interpreted in terms of contemporary feminist ideas; instead of bonding with her, Lina chooses to solidify her own position by further oppressing Sorrow. Lorde identifies female unity as integral to female equality – “ignore the differences of race between women and [her] implications of those differences presents the most serious threat to the mobilization of Women’s joint power”. Women in the contemporary setting should not be separated by their race or economic differences, but should instead integrate with each other so that the place of women and the construction of femininity can be self-determined. Lina doesn’t do this in the novel, which further fractures the unity of the women. This reaches its full conclusion at the end of the novel when Scully’s narrative voice summarises the demise of any family bond between the women – “Whatever each one loved, sought or escaped, their futures were separate and anyone’s guess”.

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There is a hierarchy of distinction in the novel; the white man is seen as superior to all, the white female below, followed by the black male and finally the black female. There are however certain exceptions to this, such as the convicts Scully and Willard who appear to be below the blacksmith, and also the Native Americans, who are singularly represented by Lina. Showing this distinction in the novel reinforces the opinions of Lorde and other black feminists, insofar as black women along with other minority groups are altered because of the “institutionalised rejection of difference”. In other words, black women are rejected from society because of the established rules that were used to govern them through the institution of slavery. Florens is perhaps the most symbolic character in the novel in terms of identifying the construction of femininity within the period of slavery. As previously stated, Florens’ sexual maturity is considered damaging because of the colour of her skin and her rank within society. In an environment where black women are easily overpowered to justify the sexual appetites of the white man, Florens’ has to be particularly careful of the production of her femininity. As a child Florens had already been targeted by the advances of D’Ortega. Her mother utilises the only power she has by asking Jacob to take Florens instead of her. What appears to be abandonment by Florens’ mother turns out to be both a blessing and a curse for Florens. Florens is convinced that her mother did not have the best intentions for her but her mother saw that Florens’ “vice for shoes” offered her “no protection”. Unfortunately, however, the cost of protecting her daughter comes at the price of her motherly role. Morrison “sheds light on a painful paradox: while they experience their girlhoods mired in physical, psychological, and sexual abuse, as well as neglect, these girls, more often than not, are robbed of their girlhoods in a struggle for survival”. By trying to save her from the psychological effects of sexual abuse, Florens’ mother neglects her daughter, and thereby deprives the latter of her childhood. Florens’ sexuality is also conflicted because of her race and her abandonment as a child. Although none of the women in the novel are free to explore their sexuality, it seems more damaging to Florens because she is so wilful in trying to discover herself, manifested in her pursuit of the blacksmith. The other women in the novel appear to be more submissive to their environment, and therefore less likely to experiment or act out on their desires. Sorrow is a prime example of this, because although she is sexually active, she doesn’t wilfully seek it.

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Even at the tender age of between seven and eight, Florens is seen to be “hurrying up [her] breasts and hurrying also the lips of an old married couple”. She excites in the pleasures of her flesh, even though she does not fully understand them. So when the blacksmith arrives on the farm, it is no surprise that Florens becomes obsessed with him and “hunts him like a she-wolf ”. She seems to define herself by the interaction that she has with the blacksmith. It is not clear in the novel whether her behaviour is down to love or purely because of her bodily lust. This ambiguous behaviour of Florens causes her to see the world through naive eyes. When Florens is sent to the blacksmith in order to save her mistress from the pox, she freely embodies her sexual desires on arrival and then allows herself to lust after the blacksmith while he is gone to help the mistress. This lust turns into jealousy and finally rage at his having more affection for the boy in his care than for Florens. This again implies that Florens’ behaviour is the result of her “robbed girlhood”. Morrison uses this slave narrative to make associations with the situation of contemporary black women. Although it is a black male that Florens consents to, it does not differ from the consciousness of contemporary black female: as Lorde says, “In this country, Black women traditionally have had compassion for everybody else except ourselves”. As a result of years of neglect and sexual disempowerment practised by the patriarchal white male, and to some extent the black male, black women are required to surrender their right to femininity. They are obliged to construct their identity through the supposed traditions of the empowered male, thereby becoming the inferior sex. Howard Zinn’s statement at the beginning of this piece is extremely effective in locating the place of women and the construction of femininity in not only Toni Morrison’s A Mercy, but for women as a whole. It has been no secret that women have had a long and often futile relationship with issues of equality. Throughout history, women have been subjected to the plights of the patriarchal male, serving as a vessel for pleasure and domesticity, submerged in a society that has overlooked them. For white women this subjugation has been challenged. They have outwardly spoken and protested against the assumed inferiority of their sex and fought for the right to be equal. The slave woman and the contemporary black woman however are still faced with a “double oppression”. The very fact of their womanhood is the initial basis for their oppression, once you add their racial characteristics,

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and you have a woman that has consciously lived through the torments of her sex. The white woman has felt oppression purely based on her gender; the African-American woman has seen a further degradation to their femininity based on race. They have generationally lived through enslavement and have been “schooled in the art of obedience to a higher authority”. As Audre Lorde maintains, the black woman’s consciousness is one of bondage and servitude to all who are above them. Toni Morrison uses her novel A Mercy to address the issues related to her African-American heritage. Both Toni Morrison and Audre Lorde have used their writing to directly address and highlight the need for change concerning the expectations of black women. Both argue that the pressures placed upon and the beliefs about contemporary black women need to be reformed so that they can counteract the double oppression with which they are faced on all fronts. A Mercy then is a novel that discusses the place of women and the construction of femininity in a historical setting, in order to unite oppressed African-American women.

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BOOK PR IN T HYPERTEX T

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BO O K P RI N T HY PE RT EX T

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BOOK PR IN T HYPERTEX T

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A A R SET H ’S ER G ODIC THEO RY

A AR SE TH’S ER GO D IC TH EO RY

by Kayleigh Kember

Aarseth’s 1997 text Cybertext: Perspectives on Ergodic Literature introduces a new concept to the discourse of new media and its effects on literature. Appropriated from physics, Aarseth uses the term ergodic to describe texts that require a reader to perform nontrivial effort when reading them. Throughout his analysis he uses the term cybertext to identify the kinds of texts that he is assessing, indicating that their commonality is not technological but dynamic texts with “a principle of calculated production.” A physical game is an example of what Aarseth would call a fully ergodic experience with no literary elements. What he is interested in is the techniques that are employed and the places where the two – game and literary work – merge. This essay will be using a textual game and a novel in order to discuss the fundamental principles of ergodic literature, as well as related textual and structural techniques. The Walking Dead (Vanaman, Darin, Whitta, 2012) is a critically acclaimed narrative game based on a graphic novel and television show of the same title, though focusing on a different narrative within the same post-apocalyptic setting. It tells the story of Lee, his journey for survival in this setting and the choices that must be made along the way. The game is very different to other zombie games as it focuses less on the horror and action aspects and instead players must concentrate on forming relationships with other characters by modifying their responses to the scenarios presented. This focus on narrative above action as well as the textual elements within gameplay, reminiscent of early text adventures, are what makes this game suitable for analysis via Aarseth’s ergodic theory. House of Leaves (Danielewski, 2000) is a multi-narrative novel including transcripts from a fictional film, The Navidson Record, an analysis of this film by a character Zampanò, an investigation of Zampanò’s text by Truant with autobiographical passages, as well as notes by unidentified editors, complete with footnotes and references to both real and fictional critical

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A A R SET H ’S ER G ODIC THEO RY

A AR SE TH’S ER GO D IC TH EO RY

by Kayleigh Kember

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works. As well as this complicated narrative, House of Leaves is presented in a unique codex format, including multiple fonts to differentiate between narrators and blank pages with unusual typography and layout. The novel’s physical format and narrative style make analysis in light of ergodic theory particularly useful. The first adventure games were more textual in content. As Aarseth points out game developers had to conceive of the many ways in which players may respond to the game to come up with suitable consequences for player actions. Though these games were able to respond with error messages or incomprehension messages, there were still a number of actions that players could make, and with source code provided they were even able to modify the game to their tastes. Technology has become more complicated in the thirty or so successive years, and gaming, like much of the media, has become more dependent on visuals. The Walking Dead combines the newer filmic quality of video games with some text adventure game qualities. The Walking Dead is based on a graphic novel already adapted into a TV show so, like the 1984 The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy adventure game, it had a market to draw upon. However, unlike that game, it created a narrative in the same imaginative world of the original while creating new characters and stories so that gamers were given a new narrative of their own. The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy game was text-based so players relied heavily on their knowledge of the original novel to navigate their way through the game. The visuals of The Walking Dead are also a remediation of its comic book parent, reinforcing its literary heritage and stylistic qualities while adapting the adventure game to the modern canon of video games. In The Walking Dead the player only encounters choices at certain times (although these occur at regular intervals), and these choices are limited to four possible responses. These choices are different to those offered in most videogames as they are displayed textually and create moral and ethical decisions as well as plot decisions. The gaming nature of these choices is maintained by their puzzle-like quality, as the player must decode the implications and possible outcomes of all the choices provided as well as their personal preference, all within a limited time. Aarseth creates another term to describe the element within cybertext that motivates the plot – intrigue – and differentiates two types of intrigue: dramatic and ergodic. He defines dramatic intrigue as “plot within the plot, usually, with the audience’s full knowledge” and ergodic intrigue as “against the user…[with] more than one explicit outcome” Both The Walking Dead

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and House of Leaves problematise this concept in different ways. As a textual game The Walking Dead would seemingly best fit into the category of ergodic intrigue. This is because the The Walking Dead contains puzzles that the player is not complicit in and must solve to progress; the consequences of not solving these puzzles can be death. However, many of the motivational elements within the game have a limited amount of outcomes, potentially changing other character’s responses and the help they offer but not changing any of the major plot events. For example in series 2 Episode 1 “All that remains”, the player must choose to save either Nick or Pete. If you save Pete he dies anyway in the next episode, “A House Divided”. He would die either way but other characters have differing reactions depending on whom you decide to save. House of Leaves as a codex experience provides the reader with static text, unable to respond to each reader individually. However, its multiple and self-referential narratives provide paths that the reader can choose to explore either in tandem or one at a time or one but not the other. Consequently the reader may be denied “full knowledge” of the narratives depending on what choices they make. Though House of Leaves can in a limited way create ergodic intrigue through its multiple narratives, Aarseth claims that ergodic intrigue is ultimately experienced by a “transcendental figure”, as the character, narratee and player all merge into one identity but are affected to different degrees by the intrigue. For example, Lee the character may die during a failed intrigue. The narratee (player) is then informed that they may restart allowing them to assess what went wrong and how they may do it differently next time. This is a particularly ergodic process as the player must put in nontrivial effort in order to assess the various actions and effects, while being forced into replaying until they resolve the intrigue correctly. House of Leaves may be able to force the reader into rereading as they attempt to find meaning and connection between different passages, but they must always remain as a reader outside of the text. Aarseth’s definition of an ergodic text is the requirement of the reader to partake in nontrivial effort in order to navigate a text. Aarseth describes nontrivial effort in contrast to trivial effort such as eye-movement and page-turning and states that it must provoke “extranoematic” senses. These are certainly elements of both narratives. Structurally the gaming aspect of The Walking Dead make this a necessity as players must use a controller to move Lee throughout the environment and click on items of interest in

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order to interact with them, as well as pressing buttons to respond to the various choices presented throughout the game. House of Leaves also creates this nontrivial experience using the physical qualities of the codex. The layout of the text shifts and requires readers to physically turn the book in order to read upside-down, reversed and diagonal text. “As an artifact, the book becomes the labyrinth, and as readers progress through it, they must flip forward and back and turn the book in every possible direction to read the text.” This physicality is further reinforced with the use of media-specific tools. In House of Leaves Danielewski makes use of footnotes, typeface and colour to add another dimension that readers must interpret and engage with along with the layout of his pages. The physical way in which these narratives prompt ergodic movement throughout the text is rather palpable, however both narratives also use other techniques in order to prompt this. Aarseth’s theory of ergodic uses terms like paths and traverse to describe a reader’s movement through text and these narratives literally provide readers with a choice of paths to move through them. House of Leaves does this through the interweaving of the various narratives. Readers must choose between reading the text in page order, following a particular narrative from beginning to end, or following the paths that the footnotes send the reader down. The latter two options are arguably more ergodic methods of traversing House of leaves as the reader will be continually forced to go back and forth through the text to search for and complete relevant passages to then find their way back to the prompting text. Though The Walking Dead offers its players various in-game choices, once a decision is made the narrative follows a linear passage and there is no need or opportunity for a player to travel back and forth (though if a player makes a bad decision Lee may die and they will be forced to replay that section). The narrator can be used as an ergodic tool troubling the narrative, as we see most overtly in House of Leaves’ presentation of three different narrators. For example footnote 165 states, “Mr. Truant refused to reveal whether the following bizarre textual layout is Zampanò’s or his own. –Ed” The text itself is drawing attention to the competing narratives and the ambiguity of the information provided. However, Aarseth mostly applies this idea of the narrator to text adventure games stating that the narrator or ‘voice’ becomes an “opponent and ally at the same time”. The Walking Dead operates in a slightly different way to this, because unlike the original adventure games it

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relies heavily on its visuals to inform the reader; instead of a narrator mediating the story the player has a much more immediate experience within the game universe. Aarseth states: “when you read from a cybertext, you are constantly reminded of inaccessible strategies and paths not taken, voices not heard”. However, Aarseth then goes on to say that the full consequences of a reader’s choices cannot be fully understood, because the reading experience changes each time. However, House of Leaves does not adhere to this phenomenon, as a printed text the choices of House of Leaves are mapped and static and so consequently choices and results can be more clearly understood. For example the footnotes give the reader a choice to keep reading or examine the chapter first. The Walking Dead on the other hand is a much more successful model of this – every choice branch the player is presented with shows other paths that could be taken, constantly reminding the player of other options available to them. After some choices a caption appears at the top of the screen stating that other characters have noted their choice, for example “Kenny will remember that” (Season one, episode two, 2012). This serves the dual purpose of reminding the player that their actions have repercussions and also suggesting other choices may make Kenny behave in a different way without actually informing the reader of what the effects may be. The Walking Dead also has a unique element whereby at the end of each episode players are provided with a page of decision statistics that allow them to compare their choices with those of other players: “Did you kill the boy in the attic?… You and 25% of players did not kill him”. This further reinforces “paths not taken” as players are shown the potential paths and occasionally the consequences of your own choices. For example in one decision statistic players are shown how many of the characters joined them on a particular mission. Seeing the different variations shows a player that other choices and paths may have given them more allies and support within the game. However, they are not told which choices led to this result and so the full consequences of their actions and the details of other paths are obscured. This is linked to interactivity and can encourage multiple playthroughs. Aarseth destabilises the critical use of the term interactive. If the reader must have some creative licence/control in order to be interactive, then can this term be applied successfully to any of the texts explored here? The player of The Walking Dead is given this level of control over their

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experience as they explore the environment of the game by literally moving Lee around and clicking on objects that they want him to examine or collect. This makes The Walking Dead feel more interactive than House of Leaves because it is apparently shaped by the player’s choices, whereas with House of Leaves being printed the choices made by the reader only affect their experience of the text and not the outcome of the text itself. However, deciding what path to follow in House of Leaves may affect the understanding of certain passages and ultimately The Walking Dead ends the same no matter how it is played. Though readers are certainly given choices they must follow a creator’s map; just as in a maze you are free to explore but must follow the paths created and laid out before you. As Aarseth states, in the myth of Theseus Daedalus created a maze so complicated that he could not find the way out, but it was designed and made static. The fictional maze within House of Leaves is associated in Zampanò’s theory with a reflection of the self: “Due to the wall-shifts and extraordinary size, any way out remains singular and applicable only to those on that path at that particular time. All solutions then are necessarily personal.” Ergodic texts leave the creation of meaning and the ending of the tale ultimately up to the reader. The ‘solution’ to the Navidsons’ maze is perhaps the closest that we get to a true level of interactivity, but this cannot be replicated, as of yet, by any media experience. This is made evident in Aarseth’s discussion of Afternoon: A Story when he comments, “[Afternoon] quickly turns into a dense, multicursal labyrinth, and the reader becomes not so much lost as caught, imprisoned by the repeating, circular paths and his own impotent choices”. Both The Walking Dead and House of Leaves give their audience control of their own path to take through the text, this is essentially what makes them ergodic. However, readers are offered only different routes to limited actions and conclusions. The critic Richardson comments on this in relation to The Walking Dead: “It’s a given that some aspects of the plot are uncontrollable, certain choices aren’t choices at all – they’re set paths that you feel in control of when you’re not, but then, that can sometimes be a part of life too and it’s crucial in driving this remarkable plot forward.” These texts are evoking the idea of agency within the changing paths similar to that inspired by the corridor in House of Leaves, although Richardson and Aarseth highlight the impotence of choices. The critic Grodal counters this in an essay on videogames stating, “Normally the options in stories are only virtual, even in the second reading or viewing, whereas a computer

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story may be constructed in such a way that what was virtual in the first playing is chosen and actualised in the second.” The choices that Aarseth characterises as impotent become an integral part of the replay and rereading value that he describes as part of the ergodic text. Finally a key characteristic of ergodic texts is their ability to push the reader outside of the text. The non-trivial effort that readers must use physically to traverse such texts is reinforced by any effort that they use outside of the text. Both texts use many methods to do this. House of Leaves is a multimedia experience, having both an album and a compilation of letters written to one of the in-text characters. This forces the reader outside of the text in search of such material as well creating an extranoematic experience of the text. Further, the critic Hemmingson highlights how Danielewski uses footnotes not only to create a physical ergodic effect of the reader traversing the text but also to push the reader outside of the text: “By using real publishing entities, such as Little Brown, for the fake books, Danielewski intentionally sends his readers on wild goose chases, to determine if these books are real or imagined.” In this way House of Leaves is able send readers into searches outside of the text looking for completed information or clarification of fiction and fact. House of Leaves is a blend of fiction and fact; this is one of the techniques that Danielewski uses to actively engage the reader. The Walking Dead also makes use of its medium to push the reader outside of the text. The game has been released on various platforms including computers, consoles and phones; the adaptability of the game allows gamers to play and discuss the game in various locations. The episodic nature of the game also allows opportunities for the reader to discuss the game between episodes, and the decision statistics further prompt this by allowing players to see the popularity of their choice. Aarseth suggests that reader-response theories may not be enough to understand the pressure that ergodic texts place on the reader as even with these theories “The performance of their reader takes place all in his head”, whereas an ergodic text is defined by its ability to compel the reader to work outside of the mind. The choices that the player makes in The Walking Dead have a direct effect on how the characters in the game respond and help. The player is often placed in survival situations and moral dilemmas that other characters are witness to and become part of the comparison with other players at the end of the narrative. This means that the player’s actions can become manipulated by the fictional characters and fellow players, as the

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player worries about the in-game consequences of their actions and their place with other players; just as House of Leaves pushes the reader out of the text to verify its sources and information and also its added content. Aarseth’s theory is a discussion of the limits of these categories and the borders at which they merge and cross. He presents these categories as something unstable and therefore it becomes hard to assess the qualities within the text and the categories of the texts themselves. The highest level of ergodic appears to be achieved by text-based games and puzzles that require the reader to type, engage and problem solve. Next we have texts that require some physical effort to be traversed by the reader, and finally texts that just require eye-movement and occasional page turning/scrolling. The many forms of electronic and print media are able to transcend which ergodic category they fit into from text to text. Both of the texts studied can be described as ergodic but vary the techniques they use towards this effect and both challenge what is expected of their medium. The Walking Dead brings a literary level to videogames that is rarely seen while House of Leaves reaffirms the adaptability of the codex form. The ergodic process in art becomes a process of learning and adopting a new perspective to understand the work or ‘see’ what the artist is trying to show us.

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O UL IPO, WOR K SH OP O F POTENTIAL

O U LI PO, WO RK S HO P O F P OT EN TIA L

L IT ER AT U RE

L IT ERATU RE

by Lorraine Cappoccia

The power of words can be immense and when put together to create a piece of literature, the effects can be immeasurable. As such, the creation of a literary piece and the talents of its creator deserve respect and admiration. Literature can take on many forms, prose or verse as well as a variety of genres such as crime fiction, young adult fiction or science fiction, which are just a very few. Writers often follow rules or guidelines, for example defined by an editor, or possibly in order to complete a piece of work, and sometimes even rules a writer has imposed on themselves. In view of this fact, this assignment will focus on rules and constraints within literature, based on the particular methods adopted by a group known as the Oulipo, who offered new techniques for creating literary works. The Oulipo was a group who followed self-imposed rules or constraints in the hope of creating new material. A brief history of the Oulipo is to follow, as well as a comparison of two novels written with the application of one of the Oulipian rules. The two novels are Oulipian member, Georges Perec’s A Void, originally published in France in 1969 and later translated into English in 1994, and predating Perec and in fact the Oulipo, Ernest Vincent Wright’s Gadsby: A Lipogram Novel, originally written in 1939. The rule will be the use of the technique known as a lipogram. The rule and constraint of a lipogram is to create a piece of work with the omission of a particular letter of the alphabet. On looking at these works, this assignment seeks to find how such an imposed rule and constraint affects the delivery of the work, in parts or as a whole. As an alternative comparison, co-founder of the Oulipo Raymond Queneau’s Exercises in Style (2009) offers a wider ranging example of Oulipian work, in which different rules are applied to one story, which is

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O UL IPO, WOR K SH OP O F POTENTIAL

O U LI PO, WO RK S HO P O F P OT EN TIA L

L IT ER AT U RE

L IT ERATU RE

by Lorraine Cappoccia

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then retold in many different styles, without losing its meaning. Finally, bringing the Oulipo into the present day, it will be considered as to whether any form of Oulipian method or interest still exists. It is anticipated that greater knowledge of the Oulipo and their methods will create subsequent explorations of creative literary activities and continued admiration for the art of literature. As Elkin and Esposito succinctly state, ‘A love of literature is a lifelong project of constant exploration’ and the work of the Oulipo certainly sustains this. The ‘Ouvroir de Littérature Potentielle’ or ‘Oulipo’ as it would become known, was founded by Raymond Queneau and François Le Lionnais in November 1960. It translates as a workshop of potential literature, focusing on the notion of ‘potential’. As a result of the complexity of the history of the Oulipo, it would not be possible to present all of their history accurately within this essay. Therefore, in order to avoid undermining or misrepresenting all they stood for, the focus here will shortly refer to Queneau’s Cent Mille Milliards de Poèmes, considered ‘the seminal Oulipian text’ and the mathematical concept this represented, which is one of the elements found in Oulipian methods. The Oulipo began as a group of ten members, from a background of various disciplines, including writers, mathematicians and University professors. Despite their different disciplines, they all shared similar ideas and wished to create something new, sometimes from the exploration of an existing piece. This is immediately clear from the construction of the group’s name; each two letters of Oulipo are taken from each of the three words in its full title. The Oulipo’s potentiality came from the creation of work by members of the group, which they considered had the potential to become literature. Their aim was to look for new ways of writing that could be adapted to meet the needs or wishes of any writer, as Queneau explained, the Oulipo’s work was “the search for new forms and structures that may be used by writers in any way they see fit.” Queneau explained the aim of the Oulipo’s work was to ‘propose new “structures” … mathematical in nature … contribute to literary activity: props for inspiration as it were, or rather, in a way, aids for creativity.’ Mathematics is not a discipline normally associated with literature – one being concerned with numbers and the other with letters – so the suggestion of literature being approached mathematically is interesting. This appears to have begun with Queneau’s Cent Mille Milliards de Poèmes, translated as One Hundred Thousand Billion Poems, and this was deduced

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from the manner in which the work could be read. As a book, it contained ten sonnets, each with the traditional fourteen lines, with each page cut into each of the fourteen lines. This allowed for selection and movement of each line to make a different combination, thus creating a new sonnet. What develops here is a mathematical approach to this book of poems and subsequently, the number of possible combinations gives the book its title. Mathematicians would call this combinatory; combining different lines to create something new. Though not originally conceived to be presented via a computer medium, the work can now more easily be grasped through various online presentations. Although not self-selected by a reader as would presumably happen with a physical copy of the book, it is still representative of the potential of being able to create an alternative arrangement of sonnet, as the quintessential idea that emerges from the existence of Queneau’s poem is the very essence of potentiality and thus the Oulipo’s intentions. Each combination of fourteen lines has the potential to become a sonnet, but due to the magnitude of poems that can be created within the book, it would be practically impossible to read all of them. As Queneau stated, for even the most avid readers of poetry, ‘it would take more than a million centuries to finish the text.’ With regard to the mathematical element of the Oulipo, Queneau stated a poet is ‘obliged to count up to twelve in order to compose an alexandrine.’ Many forms of poetry conform by containing a specific number of lines or rules and are recognised as such, including sonnets, pentameters, haiku and limericks. The initial comparison between mathematics and literature is the application of rules in order for them to work. As with mathematics, there is generally a rule in order for an equation to be explained and solved. Queneau was in fact well educated in mathematics; as Le Lionnais explained, he ‘never ceased to increase and extend his knowledge.’ Queneau’s interest in numbers even governed the way he formatted his work, which is shown in great detail in relation to the creation of chapters for Le Chiendent. Queneau stated:

‘It was intolerable to me to leave to chance the number of chapters in these novels. Thus, Le Chiendent is composed of 91 (7 x 13) sections, 91 being the sum of the first thirteen numbers and its ‘sum’ being 1, … At that time, I saw in 13 a beneficent number.’

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The indicates how Queneau considered mathematics to play a big part in the creation of his literary works, once again reinforcing some of the complexities of the Oulipo’s work as well as its potentiality. Moving away from the Oulipo’s mathematical element, attention now turns to another branch of Oulipian work, the lipogram, which is a practice of writing with the omission of one or more letters of the alphabet. Georges Perec’s attempt to trace the history of the lipogram encountered difficulties as some texts appeared contradictory in conformity or no longer existed: ‘The history of the lipogram is difficult to reconstitute … sources are disparate and dispersed; numerous works have disappeared or are unlocatable for an amateur researcher’. It is interesting to note here Perec’s choice of words, referring to himself as an amateur researcher, despite his employment as a research librarian. This possibly suggests the Oulipo did not take themselves too seriously and, as Queneau described them, in his opinion they were naïve, craftsmanlike and amusing. The suggestion of amusement will be touched upon later, when looking at some of Queneau’s work. From his research, Perec suggests three traditions of the lipogram. First, from the sixth century, with De Aetatibus Mundi & Hominis which has 23 chapters, each omitting a letter in order of the alphabet, Chapter One without A, Chapter Two without B, and so on. Second, was the application of omitting the letter R, or ‘the non-letter’, as considered by writers of German and Italian lipograms. Third, Perec introduces the vocalic tradition, avoiding the use of vowels. The letter E is one of the most commonly used letters and in Queneau’s mathematical manner, Perec calculated an equation measuring the difficulty of writing without a specified letter. Based on a text of 100 words, omitting W results in a difficulty of 0.02, as it is not a common letter. Omitting E however, produces a difficulty of 0.13. Applying this to the creation of a novel without an E increases the difficulty enormously. Perec recognises such difficulties, stating ‘writing without the A is simple in French, perilous in Spanish; it’s the contrary for the E.’ How then did Perec write a whole novel without an E? It would appear difficult enough in French, but its English translation, which will now be assessed, is also without an E. Motte describes ‘the notion of literary madness’ which was applied to members of the Oulipo or anybody writing in such a constrained manner, in order to preserve those works classed as the canon, possibly to keep Oulipian work out of it. But when asked about madness in the process of writing, Perec stated that he didn’t have ‘the

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impression that he was doing anything “madder” than, quite simply, writing.’ We will now refer to his 1969 novel, A Void, alongside Wright’s Gadsby, written some thirty years earlier. Translated to English in 1994, A Void is a detective story about Anton Vowl who has disappeared and whose friends set out to find him. The novel contains no letter E and when reading it, the omission is not apparent, though an initial clue is given in the protagonist’s surname, Vowl, a play on the word vowel. Wright’s Gadsby, a novel recounting John Gadsby’s mission to return Branton Hills into a thriving area, also omits the letter E, but this fact is highlighted from the outset, as the cover clearly states, ‘50,000 word novel without the letter “E”’. Both novels are similar in conforming to a rule or constraint and both were created under similar circumstances, in that it was not believed it could be done, so both writers wanted to prove it could. Perec speaks of this in his postscript, also written without an E. He states how difficult it was at times, but this difficulty spurred him on to ensure the creation came to fruition. ‘I stuck to my guns … finding that it took my imagination down so many intriguing linguistic highways and byways, I couldn’t stop thinking about it,’ and he continues to say, ‘So was born, word by word … a book that, … I instantly found thoroughly satisfying.’ Wright’s enthusiasm for Gadsby was spurred on in much the same way, which he explains in his Introduction. Although the Introduction does contain the letter E, he states this does not count towards the novel, as an Introduction is an author’s prerogative, ‘The author is entitled to it, in order properly to explain his work.’ Looking into the semantics of the novels more closely, whilst the flow of the stories is not hindered as a result of the omission, the styles do vary. Perec’s sentences often appear noticeably long, possibly relying too heavily on commas and being slightly over-explanatory or descriptive, although this could simply be Perec’s style of writing. Wright’s novel however, does not appear to present this issue, making the reading of it more fluid and somewhat more effective. More distinctly, Wright followed his constraint explicitly, in that he would not use numbers in their digital form, if their spelling included an E, for example, 25, (twenty-five) although Perec did use numbers this way. Further, Wright would not use abbreviations such as, Mr. and Mrs. because ‘if read aloud, plainly indicate the E in their orthography.’ Perec did not observe this and frequently used abbreviations throughout his

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novel such as (in English translation) HQ for Head Quarters, PM for Prime Minister and more obviously, using ABC in place of alphabet. One view of this could be the constraint is not to use the letter directly in a word; this is in any case a matter of the author’s discretion as to how precisely he wishes to be constrained in his writing. In its more rigorous exclusion of the letter E, Wright’s might be judged as the more successful lipogrammatic novel, but in both works to write in this way is very skilful, and as both writers explained it took time and much concentration in creating these pieces, searching for alternative words whilst retaining meaning. Perec’s playful style in his novel, even respectfully disguising Wright as a character named ‘Lord Gadsby V. Wright’ and also fellow Oulipian member Raymond Queneau as ‘Raymond Q. Knowall’, could be testament to the playful nature of the Oulipo in terms of word games. As Perec stated, ‘Not only did I spin out a fairly straightforward story but I had a lot of fun with it’. Amusement has already been mentioned in Queneau’s explanation of what he felt the Oulipo was, and this can now be seen in his Exercises in Style. This book, written in 1947 and first translated into English in 1979, has ninety-nine versions of the same, simple story, altered according to literary techniques and styles. This expresses the versatility of language and the potential to create something new, the very essence of the Oulipo. The story is retold in many styles, including a sonnet, spoonerisms, reported speech, and Cockney speech. The craftsmanship of creating such a variety of texts from one simple story is very clever. Another amusing text written by Queneau is A Story as You Like It which works on the basis of computer instructions, whereby the reader is given a list of numbered sentences and according to which type of story the reader would like to hear, they would be pointed to the corresponding number of the sentence:

1. Do you wish to hear the story of the three alert peas? if yes, go to 4 | if no, go to 2 … 2. Would you prefer the story of the three middling mediocre bushes? if yes, go to 17 | if no, go to 21 … 21. In this case, the story is likewise finished.

This again shows the humour and versatility of writers and represents the kind of literature that can be produced under a rule or constraint. How then have rules or constraints affected the literature looked at

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here? Perec suggests the need for, ‘An appreciation of the nuance between “one affects” and “one compels oneself ”. It seems that to follow a rule appears easy, but to be told of a constraint, one often feels the need to rebel against this, despite the two being quite similar. As Marcel Bénabou explains, ‘people accept the rule, they tolerate technique, but they refuse constraint. Precisely because it seems like an unnecessary rule … exaggerative and excessive.’ Wright explained he tied down the letter E on his keyboard ‘thus making it impossible for that letter to be printed. This was done so that none of that vowel might slip in, accidentally; and many did try to do so!’ This presents a challenge and once complete, must be extremely satisfying, as Bénabou continues to say: ‘This paradoxical effect of constraint, which, rather than stifling the imagination, serves to awaken it,’ opening up the possibilities, or potential, of creation. Since the Oulipo began in 1960, they have sought to explore and create through language and words with the application of mathematical concepts, which are at the heart of their work; ‘to formulate problems and eventually to offer solutions that allow any and everybody to construct, letter by letter, word by word, a text.’ So are any of these methods still in practice today? We have already seen Queneau refer to the work of the Oulipo as amusing and he stands by this, stating ‘Surely, certain of our labors may appear to be mere pleasantries, or simple witticisms, analogous to certain parlor games. Let us remember … the theory of numbers sprang in part from that which used to be called “mathematical entertainments”, “recreational mathematics,”’ and so the Oulipo’s work could be compared loosely with contemporary examples such as popular board games like Scrabble or Boggle. Each of these have rules and constraints and could have Oulipian principles applied to them. Yet for a more academic conclusion, there is proof that their work can also be seen in educational practices as a way of understanding language, on writing courses. Testament to the Oulipo’s popularity and validity, ‘The group remains a celebrated part of French culture, with regular events and workshops.’ Further proof of the Oulipo’s methods still in existence can be found at the University of Rochester in New York, where in 2007 a group formed for people interested in modern and contemporary international literature. There is a blog on their website entitled Words Without Borders: The Oulipo Issue ‘for people who like a little constraint with their writing’. It may remain then, that the Oulipo carved their way into the literary canon despite much resistance and their work is

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still popular and accessible today. This could potentially lead to a continued variety within literature and open up many possibilities for those wishing to be creative and follow in the footsteps of the greats that have gone before. As Motte states, at the heart of the Oulipo, ‘is the belief that play is central to literature and, in a broader sense, to the aesthetic experience; in this, Oulipians fervently concur with Johan Huizinga, who asserted that “all poetry is born of play.”’ As we have seen, from humble beginnings as a research group, playing with words and letters, came published and acknowledged, exemplary writers, who are still read today.

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CON T EMPOR ARY PO ETRY: T H EORY A N D PRAC TIC E

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C O N TEM PO RA RY P O ETRY: TH EO RY A N D PR AC TI CE

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CON T EMPOR ARY PO ETRY: T H EORY A N D PRAC TIC E

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C O N TEM PO RA RY P O ETRY: TH EO RY A N D PR AC TI CE

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M Y TH IN T H E POET RY O F TED HU GHES

M YTH IN THE P O ETRY O F TED HU GHES

by Anser Shah

‘When I began to sing’ said the Shaman Semyonnov Semyon, ‘my sickness usually disappeared’

We live in a society dominated by empirical thinking or ‘logos’, one in which myth has been dismissed as ‘fantasy’. However, rather like logos myth helped people live effectively in a confusing world, relating stories about gods and centering on the more abstruse and tragic aspects of the human condition that lay outside the remit of logos. Deemed a primitive form of psychology, myth attributes to helping people negotiate hermetic regions of the psyche, otherwise obfuscated, but which deeply influence thought and behaviour; for people had to enter the labyrinth of their minds and fight personal demons. Both Freud and Jung, when conducting their scientific search for the soul, instinctively turned to ancient myths for material illustrative of basic human instincts, conflicts and yearnings. Put into practice myth could reveal deep truths about humanity, teaching us to live life more intensely, cope with our mortality and survive the suffering of the flesh. The following paper will explore the curative use of myth in the poems of Ted Hughes. Concomitant to Freud and Jung, Hughes’s interest in primitive beliefs and superstitions drew upon ancient archetypes and personal myths as a method of excavating the workings of the unconscious. His anthropomorphic use of the violence and savagery of animals indicates what he sees as the bestial side of Man. By probing into the primal aspects of nature, he exorcises the instinctual energy that lies latent within human beings, producing a cathartic form of healing. Freud believed that it is poets who have the power to evoke remnants of the mythical past which lies buried in the human unconscious, a view Hughes endorses:

‘ it is only out there … the ancient instincts … feelings in which most of our bodies live … can feel at home on their own ground …

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M Y TH IN T H E POET RY O F TED HU GHES

M YTH IN THE P O ETRY O F TED HU GHES

by Anser Shah

‘When I began to sing’ said the Shaman Semyonnov Semyon, ‘my sickness usually disappeared’

‘ it is only out there … the ancient instincts … feelings in which most of our bodies live … can feel at home on their own ground …

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prehistoric feelings … we are hardly aware of … like a blood transfusion … in wild surroundings they … surface to … refresh … renew us’.

Hughes’s poetry is informed by his studies in Anthropology at Cambridge, and the atavistic Yorkshire landscape of his childhood in Mytholmroyd. He was also influenced amongst many other works by Robert Graves’s The White Goddess and Frazer’s The Golden Bough. Hughes’s perception of the poet’s calling was sacramental; identifying the poet’s destiny as that of a shaman in a primitive culture, one chosen by a spirit ‘usually some animal [who] becomes his liaison with the spirit world.’ Shamans undergo the regenerating dramas of the human psyche. Pike and Hawk Roosting are examples of messengers from the spirit world, bringing the poet ‘a clairvoyant piece of information, a display of healing power’. Hughes began writing poetry in the ‘50s and ‘60s in a period of reflection on the diminishing expectations of post war Britain, such as we find in the poems of Larkin, for instance. Hughes’ own response was to write poetry that expressed the intractable savagery of man. He found a correlation between man’s irrational nature and that of Nature’s creatures. By exploring animal energies and instincts, Hughes attempted to seek a re-alignment with the unknown forces governing the universe. His poems are for PR King:

‘a journey beyond the rational and primitive depths of experience to liberate the self. The emphasis on violence death and brutality is a ritual submission to the inevitable death of the old self that must precede the liberation and emergence of an authentic self, to gain access to the power habitually held in check by society’.

The post-war world was one in which people felt alienated from vital sources. The repression of their inner psychic world under the burden of scientific logos required works of the mythopoeic imagination to make man aware of his primeval reality. Hughes’s concentration on animals is his attempt to clarify his feelings on the human condition:

‘the mythic imagination works as the healing power in the face of the violence and brutality of the post-holocaust period … it serves as a healing relief to the secret mental emotions.

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prehistoric feelings … we are hardly aware of … like a blood transfusion … in wild surroundings they … surface to … refresh … renew us’.

‘the mythic imagination works as the healing power in the face of the violence and brutality of the post-holocaust period … it serves as a healing relief to the secret mental emotions.

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We can see this in The Ghost Crabs in Wodwo, which creates a sense of ‘weird phantasmagoria’ where the crabs are symbolic representations of the destructive forces that lurk in our subconscious:

‘Coming out at night when the sea darkens’, they manifest a repressed psyche, roaming freely about, ‘our walls, our bodies, are no problem to them. Their hungers are homing elsewhere. We cannot see them or turn our minds from them’.

They are too strong to be repressed because they are the powers of this world. For King, they belong to the subterranean world of Pike, with slow, powerful advance, invading the land and moving towards the sleeping town. They hunt and breed in Man’s mind, connecting him to the non-human world which he prefers to deny. They represent the ‘turmoil of history, the convulsion in the roots of blood in the cycle of concurrence’, embedded in the subconscious, ever ready to emerge. The animals reveal the darkest recesses of man’s being and his questioning of the structures of the universe, a point illustrated in Crow. The Crow poems ordain endless and needless suffering. Hughes’s approach is naked and direct. Crow is the gospel according to Darwinism, older than humanity the crow transforms our century through his trickster vision of frightening intensity. Published in 1970, Crow: From the Life and Songs of the Crow is a sequence of folktales in which Hughes rewrites the Christian Creation and creates his own personal myth, employing quest as a theme and pattern for his own poetic growth. Crow’s world is the perpetual warfare of ‘tooth and claw’ and God is his adversary. Crow ‘cannot be forgiven, /His prison is the earth’. Love is a word in God’s mouth but the world cannot pronounce it. With no Christ to redeem him, Crow’s only satisfaction is that he is God’s nightmare, that he survives and is moved by the life force itself. Certainly, for the American edition, ‘Crow was perhaps a more plausible explanation of the World than the Christian sequence’. Pike from Lupercal is an example of Hughes appropriating archetypal myth from the Indian epic Mahabharata but is also a picture of the malevolence of the universe. Hughes describes the fish ‘three inches long … killers from the egg’ and the fisherman casts his line ‘as deep as England’ fearful of what he may bring to the surface. Hughes’s language is that of a man describing what he sees and feels but these ‘killers from the egg’, ‘stunned

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We can see this in The Ghost Crabs in Wodwo, which creates a sense of ‘weird phantasmagoria’ where the crabs are symbolic representations of the destructive forces that lurk in our subconscious:

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by their own grandeur’ have a hard certainty and majesty. In Poetry in the Making, Hughes describes the poet’s necessary act of bringing to conscious expression his submerged instinctual life, ‘Our minds lie in us like the fish in the pond of a man who cannot fish’. His poetic commitment to theme reflects less on morality than on an essential energy which is not ‘considered speech’, but what Schmidt considers ‘authentic speech…the language of Heathcliff ’. In an interview with Egbert Faas, he said that his animal poems ‘were written in an effort to create an absolutely still language’. It was Hughes’s interest in the link between left and right hemispheres of the brain, and their correspondence with mythos and logos as different modes of language or speech that fuelled such poetry. Certainly, to read Hughes’s poems with an appreciation of the the idea of two contrasting selves in the brain’s hemispheres illuminates his use of metaphor and anthropomorphism, as epistemological points of departure in relation to the quest for poetic truth . In his book Literature and the Crime against Nature, Sagar suggests that the crime against nature is the usurpation of the right hemisphere, which grounds us in nature, by the left, which alienates us from it. Previously, Jung valued the symbol as providing the necessary third ground on which the otherwise polarized halves of the psyche could meet. For Hughes:

‘The story of the mind exiled from nature is the story of western Man … his … desperate search for mechanical … rational … symbolic securities, which … substitute for the spirit … confidence in Nature he has lost … suppressing the right … removes the individual from the “inner life” of the right … producing the sensation of living removed from oneself ’.

In Shakespeare and the Goddess of Complete Being he contextualises this point:

‘the left side processes verbal language, abstract concepts … the right, is virtually wordless, processes of sensuous imagery … intuitive ideas … special patterns of wholeness and simultaneity … [which] ally the deep subjective life of the animal with the right, and subjective self- control with the left.’

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In Shakespeare and the Goddess of Complete Being he contextualises this point:

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The dominance of logos has resulted in the right becoming almost extinct, removing the individual from the inner life and from the real world. It is at this point that Hughes feels poetry becomes integral: ‘Metaphor is a sudden flinging open of the door into the world of the right side…where animal is not separated from either the spirit or the real world of itself ’. A point McGilchrist’s study of the brain confirms:

‘only the right … understand[s] metaphor … can reach outside the system of signs … the existence of a system of thought dependent on language … devalues whatever cannot be expressed in language … it is only whatever can ‘leap’ beyond the world of language and reason that can break the imprisoning hall of mirrors … reconnec[ting] us with the real world’.

This aligns with Hughes’s own methods. Still influenced by mythology, Hughes created Orghast, a play largely based on the Prometheus legend with dialogue in an invented language to illustrate the theory that sound alone could express very complex human emotions. He continued this theme with his next work Prometheus on His Crag from 1973. His poetry functions as a manifestation of the kind of writing that points to a truth that is to be found in a space beyond language as simply name. For Hughes:

‘the inner world separated from the outer … is a place of demons … the outer world separated from the inner … is a place of meaningless objects … the faculty that makes the human being out of these two worlds is called divine … it is the faculty without which humanity cannot … exist. It can be called religious, visionary … but essentially … the imagination which embraces both inner and outer worlds in creative spirit’.

Hughes returns to the myth-evoking and myth-making figure of the shaman, and the concept of the self as the visionary creator of all that is perceived. His belief in bridging the gap between ‘object and mind, man and nature’ in which man must seek assurance from within his own self is attendant to non-Western thought , and is manifest in several poems of Wodwo. In The Bear for example, the ‘gleam in the pupil’ of the ‘atman’ within the self is a gleam of the Buddhist eye of trans-phenomenal wisdom. In Karma Scigaj asserts:

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‘the poet’s meditation upon the sufferings and carnage created by man in his hundred and fifty million years of civilization, is the Buddhist retracing of time and karmic bondage to suffering in order to absorb it and arrive at the timeless, the point before temporal duration where liberation is possible.’

The decline of mythical thinking in an industrialized world has resulted in a loss of a sense of transcendence and the value of human life. In thinking through the catastrophe of the last century, Hughes’s recourse to mythical poetry provides a cure for the spiritual impotence of the modern age. The sequence of his poems was a deliberate choice, where the whole is more than the sum of its parts; generating process, preventing a unified identity but ensuring a continuous movement and opening towards ‘being’; a mystical process of becoming one with God, or a divine creative source, which enriches the minds of all that read him. In The Anthropologist’s Uses of Myth, Ray Brandes says that as a mythic poet, Hughes wrote to liberate and heal the soul, body, community and world. As a shaman his mythic quest served as the sacred script for the poet as healer and liberator. Thus it is that in his poem, ‘The Prophet,’ God speaks to Pushkin:

Be my witness. Go / Through all seas and lands. With the word / Burn the hearts of the people.

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Be my witness. Go / Through all seas and lands. With the word / Burn the hearts of the people.

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POET RY FOR S C HO O L

P OE TRY FO R S CH O O L

by Jack Houston

Stoke Newington c. 500,000 BC

“The sharp implements at North-East London have been found in such positions that the idea is sometimes forced on one that all the makers of the implements suddenly died or left the place in fear of some impending danger, and left their tools on the very spots where they were actually being used.” — Worthington G. Smith

Young, fit, barely lingual & single (the female he mated with last night

still ain’t returned his call), he stands & surveys an unyet named land.

He’s with his group, safer in their small number. Around them hairy, dark, large-horned beasts

& hairier, darker larger-tusked beasts stomp the plain that stretches all the way to the water.

Troop & herds watch each other warily – the same game played & replayed – no one wanting to let slip;

all mad scared of the massive cats that ripple through the longer grasses: deadlier

as the day fades. He squats

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POET RY FOR S C HO O L

P OE TRY FO R S CH O O L

by Jack Houston

Stoke Newington c. 500,000 BC

Young, fit, barely lingual & single (the female he mated with last night

still ain’t returned his call), he stands & surveys an unyet named land.

He’s with his group, safer in their small number. Around them hairy, dark, large-horned beasts

& hairier, darker larger-tusked beasts stomp the plain that stretches all the way to the water.

Troop & herds watch each other warily – the same game played & replayed – no one wanting to let slip;

all mad scared of the massive cats that ripple through the longer grasses: deadlier

as the day fades. He squats

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&, using a technique passed from hand to hand, with a hard stone in one – soft flint in the other,

gently knap – knap – knaps until a sharp edge is made. He holds up his latest blade to the light. It’s perfect,

almost too sharp, & will serve him well. But when she (yes, her) walks past and coos gently, he drops it.

Living the Dream

Double-dropping pills with whisky, that’s how you knew it was a dream. There’s no way you could down anything with whisky, straight from the bottle, ugh, no way.

That’s how you knew it was a dream. In real life you’ve had experiences with whisky, straight from the bottle (ugh, no way!) when you were a teenager that’d have put you off.

In real life you’ve had experiences, some good, some bad, most happening when you were a teenager. That’d have put you off taking too many risks, being too wild.

Some good. Some bad. Most happening so fast you almost miss everything. Taking too many risks, being too wild, you have to calm down. You can’t go on

so fast you almost miss everything: the highs, the lows. It ain’t easy to — you have to calm down. You can’t go on raving until you’re old and grey, can you?

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&, using a technique passed from hand to hand, with a hard stone in one – soft flint in the other,

gently knap – knap – knaps until a sharp edge is made. He holds up his latest blade to the light. It’s perfect,

almost too sharp, & will serve him well. But when she (yes, her) walks past and coos gently, he drops it.

Living the Dream

Double-dropping pills with whisky, that’s how you knew it was a dream. There’s no way you could down anything with whisky, straight from the bottle, ugh, no way.

That’s how you knew it was a dream. In real life you’ve had experiences with whisky, straight from the bottle (ugh, no way!) when you were a teenager that’d have put you off.

In real life you’ve had experiences, some good, some bad, most happening when you were a teenager. That’d have put you off taking too many risks, being too wild.

Some good. Some bad. Most happening so fast you almost miss everything. Taking too many risks, being too wild, you have to calm down. You can’t go on

so fast you almost miss everything: the highs, the lows. It ain’t easy to — you have to calm down. You can’t go on raving until you’re old and grey, can you?

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The highs. The lows. It ain’t easy to imagine it, going out, trying to keep up raving until you’re old and grey. Can you? I can’t. No thanks. Better to settle.

Imagine it, going out, trying to keep up (it must get a bit much after a while). I can’t. No thanks! Better to settle down, bring some new little ravers in.

It must get a bit much after a while; you want someone to take over. Don’t go getting down, bring some new little ravers in! Watch them have a time of it, naturally

you want someone to take over. Don’t go getting all freaky-deaky now. You’re not giving up. Relax, watch them have a time of it. Naturally, though, you might want to join in a bit; but

all FREAKY-DEAKY now — you’re not giving up! Relax, there’s no way you could down anything… though you might want to join in a bit. But double-dropping pills with whisky?

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The highs. The lows. It ain’t easy to imagine it, going out, trying to keep up raving until you’re old and grey. Can you? I can’t. No thanks. Better to settle.

Imagine it, going out, trying to keep up (it must get a bit much after a while). I can’t. No thanks! Better to settle down, bring some new little ravers in.

It must get a bit much after a while; you want someone to take over. Don’t go getting down, bring some new little ravers in! Watch them have a time of it, naturally

you want someone to take over. Don’t go getting all freaky-deaky now. You’re not giving up. Relax, watch them have a time of it. Naturally, though, you might want to join in a bit; but

all FREAKY-DEAKY now — you’re not giving up! Relax, there’s no way you could down anything… though you might want to join in a bit. But double-dropping pills with whisky?

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The Flying Squad

No one round here was quite sure of what had happened to the Alsatians. Perhaps someone took them off out for a walk and lost them or something. All I know is one day the police started to train budgerigars. And what with your parakeet not being the most fearsome of creatures we simply laughed at first.

But, as it happens, they’ve got a sharp sense of smell, so can sniff out crime at a mile; and once you’ve seen one lift off and climb quicker than a skittish kitten, you soon start to wondering, Have I made decent choices? kept the right kind of friends?

Keen of eye, supple of limb, and surprisingly vicious, a chatter of budgerigars are. Once they’ve mustered and got their blood up, nowhere’s safe.

Tho’ it ain’t until you’ve gone and seen a score of them, little claws flashing under a blur of blue-green-yellow feathers, swoop down to bodily hoik a geezer into custody, that you really begin to think about going straight.

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The Flying Squad

Keen of eye, supple of limb, and surprisingly vicious, a chatter of budgerigars are. Once they’ve mustered and got their blood up, nowhere’s safe.

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Post Peak

2 horses stand together in a car park, the marmalade glow of morning having them look else, else, else. Manes sporadically twist a tail’s flick. The rusted hulk, sitting flat in the corner, communicates dead tradition. A sign speaks to no one, threatening nothing, nothing, nothing. The horses pick between the cracks going for the tiny unnamed sun-bloom flowers that rise, rise, rise, blossom, blossom, blossom, fall. Rise,

blossom, blossom, blossom,

fall,

fall.

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Post Peak

blossom, blossom, blossom,

fall,

fall.

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blossom, blossom, blossom,

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Breath

“Because breath allows all the speech force of language back in… everything in a poem can now be treated as solids, objects, things.”

Charles Olson

Now breathe. Go on, we both know you have to; both know you must, still. Fill your lungs. Empty them. Feel the air pass through and into you.

Now imagine you are playing a flute. Purse your lips. Hold the instrument at the correct angle. No, no, no, not like that, you’ll never make a note that way. Yes, that’s better.

Now blow. Doesn’t that sound good? Bit like a bird, only deeper and richer.

Now try to picture being a concert pianist, about to play before a large hall of people. They are quiet, waiting for you to play your first note. Now don’t panic. Don’t get nervous. Keep your breathing even and regular. This will help with your nerves, calming them, and also your performance.

Now don’t panic. Don’t get nervous. Keep your breathing even and regular. This will help with your nerves, calming them, and also your performance.

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Breath

“Because breath allows all the speech force of language back in… everything in a poem can now be treated as solids, objects, things.”

Charles Olson

Now breathe. Go on, we both know you have to; both know you must, still. Fill your lungs. Empty them. Feel the air pass through and into you.

Now imagine you are playing a flute. Purse your lips. Hold the instrument at the correct angle. No, no, no, not like that, you’ll never make a note that way. Yes, that’s better.

Now blow. Doesn’t that sound good? Bit like a bird, only deeper and richer.

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Now try to picture being a concert pianist, about to play before a large hall of people. They are quiet, waiting for you to play your first note.

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Now try and think ‘I’m a tree.’ Breathing in what people breathe out and breathing out what people breathe in. You need not worry a jot about music or performance. Though birds live and sing within your branches, and you’re

now made of wood, which could be used to make a piano.

The Fall for Harun Yahya

In the beginning there’s a twitch or an itch, or a feeling like heat on the back of the head.

Our eyes squint and start shrinking, ears tuft up. A deep yearning for trees.

Things get hairy, but we just can’t talk about what’s going on. We walk away

from cars, homes, phones, retrace steps back to simpler. The whales come

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now made of wood, which could be used to make a piano.

The Fall for Harun Yahya

In the beginning there’s a twitch or an itch, or a feeling like heat on the back of the head.

Our eyes squint and start shrinking, ears tuft up. A deep yearning for trees.

Things get hairy, but we just can’t talk about what’s going on. We walk away

from cars, homes, phones, retrace steps back to simpler. The whales come

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stomping onto land. Cows get big and pigs get angry. Chickens fly their coops and grow terribly

large. And while we rustle in undergrowth, using all four legs, tails descend to balance leaps between branches.

Soon fur and feather drop. Legs go all caudal. We slither back into the sea; cells fall

apart — an elemental tango slowing to a stop: amin-o, amin-o, amin-o, amin-o.

COMMENTARY

In the first of these six poems I have, like Seamus Heaney in North, used archeology as an influence for my poetry. But where Heaney used the bog bodies found throughout northern Europe, I have turned to the hand-axes that are still being found in people’s back gardens in the suburbs of North London. These are dated back to about half a million years ago when the forerunner to Homo Sapiens, Homo Erectus, lived in a country we would barely recognise. However, I wanted the poem to focus on what unites our two species. I tried to do this by having the language, ‘Young, fit’, ’ain’t returned his call’, ‘latest blade’, be up-to-date, thereby helping the modern-day reader

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stomping onto land. Cows get big and pigs get angry. Chickens fly their coops and grow terribly

large. And while we rustle in undergrowth, using all four legs, tails descend to balance leaps between branches.

Soon fur and feather drop. Legs go all caudal. We slither back into the sea; cells fall

apart — an elemental tango slowing to a stop: amin-o, amin-o, amin-o, amin-o.

COMMENTARY

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to connect with the subject of the poem. The main drawback with this conceit is that when ‘today’ s’ idiom moves on, the poem may be left sounding as dated as an Acheulean stone tool. Another poem set in pre-history is Linda France’s ‘Acknowledged Land’ — in which the action is placed and dated ‘Northumberland, 10,000 – 700 BC’ in an epigraph. The similarities between her poem and my own do not end there, in her poem France even has mention of ‘so many blades, knives // we whittle from the sharp sound of flint’. In the latest issue of PN Review, there are two pantoums. One by Marilyn Hacker, ‘Pantoum in Wartime’, and one by Kathleen Bell, ‘at the station of Montparnasse’. Both are very technically impressive. Like both these poets I have taken the second and fourth line of each stanza and repeated them in the first and third lines of the next, taking the two ‘unused’ lines — the first and third lines from the first stanza — and using them in a last stanza that arrives after ten stanzas. Writing poems to forms such as the pantoum is quite the technical challenge, but is also a lot of fun. There is a connection with August Kleinzahler’s ‘Sunday in November’ in that this poem not only references some else’s dream, ‘And who were they all in your dream last night / chattering so / you think that when you woke / the living room would be full of friends and ghosts?’ but also speaks in the second person. John Ashberry tackled the pantoum form in a poem simply titled ‘Pantoum’. The literary spirit of Simon Armitage looms large over ‘The Flying Squad’. Poems such as ‘The Stuff ’, and ‘Brassneck’ all feature speakers from an unspecified criminal underclass. I have tried, like Armitage, to express a character through the use of a distinct voice that does not quite sound like it is using received pronunciation, ‘climb quicker than a skittish kitten’, ‘a chatter of budgerigars are, once they’ve mustered / and got their blood up’, ‘Tho’ it ain’t until you’ve gone and seen a score of them, little claws flashing / under a blur of blue-green-yellow feathers, swoop down / and bodily hoik a geezer into custody’. I was also pleased to be able to use a bird-related collective noun. Jane Yeh’s ominous ‘The Birds’, where she has birds that are wanting ‘to live on the ground like people, but they can’t be arsed to make weapons’, was an enjoyable influence. Reading through The Wolf magazine, I was struck by Alvin Pang’s new offerings, ‘-drawn’ and ‘Obituary’. In particular, his use of spacing the words around the page gave me the idea for ‘post peak’. As I was writing the poem, I also thought of a recent issue of Magma where a ‘concrete poetry’ theme led to many poems whose shape in some way equalled their content. When

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the poem began to come together I could see the ‘tiny untitled sun-bloom flowers’ appear. There is also a nod to Charles Olson and his work in spacing words on the page. The collision of concrete poetry and plant-life brings to mind George Starbuck’s ‘Sonnet in the Shape of a Potted Christmas Tree’ There is a poem by Will Kemp in a recent issue of The Rialto that is worth quoting in full: The Rowers

They came through the lifting mist, eight blades skimming the water each man stretching forwards then heaving back on taking the catch, the bow at once thrust on towards the hard yards of the Long Reach, the crew pulling clear of that grey like a longship leaving the sound. I return to Olson for the epigraph to ‘Breath’. Though this poem’s light, comedic tone really owes more to Billy Collins than it does Olson. There is also more than a passing resemblance in form to Heather Phillipson’s ‘Speech to be Delivered at the First Convenient Occasion’, with its indented lines running back and forth across the page. Though these poems use the space of the page in an innovative fashion, neither come close to Olson’s ‘Maximus of Gloucester’ in which the lines slip their moorings entirely to go spinning off around the page. Glynn Maxwell has written a poem titled ‘Breath’ in which he writes, ‘Inhale. In that is old democracy’. ‘The Fall’, with its dedication, biblical opening line, and description of a reverse evolutionary path this poem pokes gentle fun at steadfastly-held creationist beliefs without, I hope, offending anyone too much. It owes much to the poetry of Jean Sprackland, who in poems such as ‘Fibre Optic’, ‘Soulless’ and ‘The Mission’, addresses themes of science, technology and spirituality. There is also the irreverence of Sam Taylor who in his poem ‘Sunday Morning’ describes a young Jesus as having ‘acne then, full-blown craters’. Nicholas Laird, in his poem ‘The Effects’, writes ‘To see the gods withdraw, / dethroned, exposed to ridicule’, which in some way prefigures both Sam Taylor’s and my own poem. Jorie Graham has written a poem titled ‘Evolution’, though I fear I may now be comparing puddles to oceans.

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Finally, it is interesting to note that if we pay attention to Helen Vendler’s distinction between dramatic monologue and lyric (i.e. that dramatic monologues are ‘poems that are overheard’ and a lyric is a poem that makes ‘their reader the solitary speaker’), we immediately notice that all the above poems lack the lyric ‘I’, are dramatic monologues. If we believe that ‘one can look for [the personal] and already one is not oneself, one is several’ then this may not be so much of an issue. But could be, if only for the sake of balance, something I may wish to address in my future poetic endeavours.

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SIX POE MS

S I X P OE M S

by Krysta Lee Quejada Frost

The Dinner Table

After a while I forget how to speak with my hands. Years since. I eat with spoon and fork at the table, sometimes on the floor. Go through glasses of water just to feel full again. I stain the table with dark rims of dew.

Lolo serves us milkfish— the only meal he remembers how to make he could cook with his eyes closed. He has lost his grip, his muscles turned pulpy, eyes like seawater during typhoon season. Still, he eats with his hands. His fingers move as if strumming an instrument. A quiet sound.

I avoid the fish for the ampalaya, taste its bitterness on the back of my tongue. Without words lolo pushes the plate of fish towards me. I reach for it, trying to relearn what I have lost.

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SIX POE MS

S I X P OE M S

by Krysta Lee Quejada Frost

The Dinner Table

I avoid the fish for the ampalaya, taste its bitterness on the back of my tongue. Without words lolo pushes the plate of fish towards me. I reach for it, trying to relearn what I have lost.

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My hands are rash, thoughtless. My own skin taut over the bone as I separate the fish from its spine. Miming a language I once knew, awkward in my movements, lacking the precision of loss.

A splinter of bone gets caught in my throat— a word I cannot say. I gather a small ball of rice between my fingers

to swallow like I was once taught to do.

Mothers’ Daughters

we break chilled mangosteens against the tabletop and speak like we are our mothers’ daughters again. our fingers stained by the fruit’s red flesh— one white hand, one brown but our hearts are made of the same tin roof and sunlight, the same river our mothers crossed to get to school every morning.

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My hands are rash, thoughtless. My own skin taut over the bone as I separate the fish from its spine. Miming a language I once knew, awkward in my movements, lacking the precision of loss.

A splinter of bone gets caught in my throat— a word I cannot say. I gather a small ball of rice between my fingers

to swallow like I was once taught to do.

Mothers’ Daughters

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her mother was beautiful but stronger than mine. sharp-tongued with cool skin. my mother was soft-limbed and lovely fitting against the roof of their mouths. in their rum-colored voices they hum that she is pretty, painting her body with the shadows of their hands.

as daughters we talk about what our mothers still carry, about how they’ve grown. my mother, that same beauty. that same shame for a body that has already forgotten itself, grown tough from the cold of another country’s blue mornings.

she says i should be ashamed to see my body bent for love. because she was once bent back and broken. because she never knew just how two people could bow.

and what she still calls love is shaped like a man’s teeth on her skin. on mine.

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she says i should be ashamed to see my body bent for love. because she was once bent back and broken. because she never knew just how two people could bow.

and what she still calls love is shaped like a man’s teeth on her skin. on mine.

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Modern Romance

II.

III.

She takes up smoking. Then twenty-four hour convenience stores. Then libraries. Atlases and encyclopedias, old newspapers soft beneath her fingertips. Never novels or autobiographies. They hit too close to home. Tell me a story in which the body defends itself. Tell me a story with no words. The suggestion of bones beneath a smooth expanse of skin. There had been bruises, yes, and pangs and flares, and so much to be told until morning. You are a body of work.

They were in love. Kissing in cars, limbs strained against leather and glass. Their hands had no time for directions. No time for maps. It was drive or I’m getting out of the car. It was drive until the sky remembers morning. It was turn here and ease off the breaks, would you? I need a coffee but the roads are empty for miles.

They even texted without capitalizing the I’s. He saw her with her hair down, watching as she pulled the band away from her head, the hair falling slowly into place around her shoulders, a curtain calling in the night.

She said she fell in love with the city. He said she was a body of work. In their dreams they mapped out the memory of the other’s fingers brushing the secrecy of a wrist.

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Modern Romance

II.

III.

She said she fell in love with the city. He said she was a body of work. In their dreams they mapped out the memory of the other’s fingers brushing the secrecy of a wrist.

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IV.

Love me like we’re under the worst sky you’ve seen in your life and I am no longer an apology.

Love me like I had a chance to say goodbye.

But she stays quiet, twists her thick hair into a bun, lowers a quivering lip to the swell of flesh enveloped in shadow, and moves like she has nowhere else to go.

VI.

The night has yet to lift its heavy skirts. I wonder what he’s done about the birds.

In her one-bedroom apartment she lets the curtains fall over the small window. The bed creaks beneath her weight as she crawls towards her new lover. She thinks, Love me like each star is a bullet wound, like where I’ve been broken is sealed with light.

At dawn he wakes up to the sound of birds. He draws a hand to his chest and breathes. Tries to calm his beating heart, resounding from the absence of her skull against his shoulder.

Tomorrow she will wake up and hope her lover did not notice the sound of the sea when she raised her mouth to the curve of her lover’s ear and breathed.

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IV.

Love me like we’re under the worst sky you’ve seen in your life and I am no longer an apology.

Love me like I had a chance to say goodbye.

But she stays quiet, twists her thick hair into a bun, lowers a quivering lip to the swell of flesh enveloped in shadow, and moves like she has nowhere else to go.

VI.

The night has yet to lift its heavy skirts. I wonder what he’s done about the birds.

At dawn he wakes up to the sound of birds. He draws a hand to his chest and breathes. Tries to calm his beating heart, resounding from the absence of her skull against his shoulder.

Tomorrow she will wake up and hope her lover did not notice the sound of the sea when she raised her mouth to the curve of her lover’s ear and breathed.

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Growing Pains

My mother said that once somebody sets you on fire you’ll always have a throatful of matches.

She meant that the body remembers. Skin the first language we cannot forget.

But what she called a lesson I called a scar. What she called a memory was another splinter to swallow.

That was when I thought of myself as a husk. When I wanted to break the body. Before language broke me and laid me bare on the page.

She called them growing pains— the bones trying to escape the flesh, the heart knocking against the ribcage, the poem too heavy for the hand.

And when the sky is wound tight around a seed of light like this—

resisting the pull of morning just to crack full of light like this,

I’ve learned it can go either way:

in the waiting yawn of day.

rebelling and breaking or softening and ripening

in the waiting yawn of day.

rebelling and breaking or softening and ripening

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Growing Pains

My mother said that once somebody sets you on fire you’ll always have a throatful of matches.

She meant that the body remembers. Skin the first language we cannot forget.

But what she called a lesson I called a scar. What she called a memory was another splinter to swallow.

That was when I thought of myself as a husk. When I wanted to break the body. Before language broke me and laid me bare on the page.

She called them growing pains— the bones trying to escape the flesh, the heart knocking against the ribcage, the poem too heavy for the hand.

And when the sky is wound tight around a seed of light like this—

resisting the pull of morning just to crack full of light like this,

I’ve learned it can go either way:

in the waiting yawn of day.

rebelling and breaking or softening and ripening

in the waiting yawn of day.

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rebelling and breaking or softening and ripening

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Last Summer

It did not come as a shock, the news of my father swimming in the midst of a violent storm, ready to surrender his limbs to the ocean, thinking this is it, this is it,

but the storm held its breath and he carved the current to the lip of the water

and that was it.

It was not many years ago. In fact it was just last week his back locked itself into a curve as he brushed his teeth, his head nearly slamming into the faucet,

and again his body gave way to thought as he crawled to the bedroom to write, and he wrote it all, even a note the nature of which I cannot say out loud, not now

not ever

not when he refused to look at me in the hospital, ashamed that life could be fed to him from a tube, wearing his sunglasses as he always did, like he had given up on looking people in the eye, or letting them know

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Last Summer

It did not come as a shock, the news of my father swimming in the midst of a violent storm, ready to surrender his limbs to the ocean, thinking this is it, this is it,

but the storm held its breath and he carved the current to the lip of the water

and that was it.

It was not many years ago. In fact it was just last week his back locked itself into a curve as he brushed his teeth, his head nearly slamming into the faucet,

and again his body gave way to thought as he crawled to the bedroom to write, and he wrote it all, even a note the nature of which I cannot say out loud, not now

not ever

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that he still did after all this time

he waits, and I call with nothing to say but I’m out of bread, because what else, what else could I have said, that I was afraid, that from miles away mom told me what you hid, that you were the one who taught me about the cosmic joke, it changed my life, dad, how could you

forget?

And yet

the next morning a loaf of bread always awaited me.

For weeks I stopped by his office until he no longer closed his eyes when we talked. I spoke of nothing but my poetry, where I wanted to lead it and where I wanted it to lead me, which he knew was not a plea for life

but a thank you,

until finally he said yes, I’d like to go there too.

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that he still did after all this time

forget?

And yet

the next morning a loaf of bread always awaited me.

but a thank you,

until finally he said yes, I’d like to go there too.

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Healing Hands

my lover is an artist stuffed into the shell of a boy. imprints of his father’s fists and warm skin covered with scraps of metal. he kisses with his eyes closed, his hands completely open.

summer is infinite and we are hungry and tired of repenting. the tongue tastes regret on the skin. we are all pillars of salt for looking back.

slowly we take off our clothes. i remove his spare parts and he unravels me. underneath it all we are both so thin.

we are like water cupped in the other’s trembling hands. terrified of spilling. remembering what it felt like to be let go.

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Healing Hands

my lover is an artist stuffed into the shell of a boy. imprints of his father’s fists and warm skin covered with scraps of metal. he kisses with his eyes closed, his hands completely open.

summer is infinite and we are hungry and tired of repenting. the tongue tastes regret on the skin. we are all pillars of salt for looking back.

slowly we take off our clothes. i remove his spare parts and he unravels me. underneath it all we are both so thin.

we are like water cupped in the other’s trembling hands. terrified of spilling. remembering what it felt like to be let go.

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COMMENTARY

For this group of poems, I was prompted by the tendency of confessional poets to use language as a tool to access and evoke the very personal and often difficult topics such as trauma, loss, desperation, and death. Unlike poets like Sexton and Plath, however, I do not breach the specifics of mental illness, but, through my use of imagery in the poems, try to capture the sense of despair and fear that often accompany it. Although I approached the subjects of my poems similar to the confessional poets, the style I employ is mainly inspired by contemporary poets of color such as Audre Lorde and Amiri Baraka. I wanted my use of “silence” in the poems to communicate just as much as the words I chose; thus, I focused on centering my poems around tangible images rather than obscure abstractions, hoping that the clarity of images could work in harmony with the nuances and quietness of the poem. Rather than a forceful, momentous rhythm, I opted for more subtle, restrained movements in the language that, in their simplicity, may communicate the intensity of the emotion that lay beneath the words as an undercurrent. Audre Lorde’s poetry—specifically the power of her imagery despite the light and fluid movement of her language—was my foremost influence when it came to style. “The Dinner Table” is one such poem that makes use of minimal and simple language, relying on the interplay of “silence” and words to convey a sense of longing for an aspect of culture that the speaker has lost—that is, eating with one’s hands, which the speaker considers as significant a practice as speaking a language. For me, the scene of the dinner table evokes a strong sense of cultural identity and the intimacies of family. This poem’s style is more akin to Lorde’s work than a confessional poet, given the poem’s focus on images of family and culture. “Mothers’ Daughters” has a similar theme, this time focusing on a mixed race Asian American mother/daughter dynamic, the tensions regarding gender, and the discrepancies in the way a shared culture is lived out throughout generations. Though the tone is more nostalgic and the language more lyrical, it nevertheless relies on its images to tell its story. It also hints at the ways that patterns sexism and abuse are excused, normalized, and perpetuated among women in one’s own family. Though the voice in these poems is undeniably personal, it also calls attention to the more political themes of race, ethnicity, and gender.

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COMMENTARY

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“Modern Romance” is one of the more stylistically experimental poems in the collection; it also lacks the tangibility and clarity of the other poems. It begins with an angry, aggressive voice—inspired by Richard Siken’s poetry in Crush—before easing its way into a tone of loss and longing. Though the voice is more narrative than personal, its sense urgency and broken, staggered stanzas and images suggests a kind of clawing desperation for survival. I was influenced by the confessional poets’ themes of mental illness and emotional brokenness to portray a destructive relationship between two people who nevertheless remain attached to each other as a source of exhilaration—as damaging as it may be. Comparatively, “Growing Pains” exhibits an emergence from such destruction by growing with, instead of resisting, the pain and scars of trauma. Although this poem also features mother and daughter figures, their relationship is notably more supportive and empowering than that of the previous poem. Like Lorde’s language in the poem “Coal,” I make use of fire and light metaphors as well as imagery relating to growth, and being born from nature. Like Lorde, who discusses the nuances of different words in her poem, I also refer to the significance of yielding to language as a way of healing and dealing with pain. “Last Summer,” on the other hand, forgoes the simplicity and emphasis on imagery for a very personal—and indeed confessional—voice. Unlike my other poems, the style is quite different in that I do not restrain the flow of emotion or clip my language, instead allowing it to propel the poem. The use of “silence” was not a factor in this poem. I wanted the words to gain momentum as the poem developed, as if it were just rolling off the speaker’s tongue. This is the only poem that alludes to a suicide attempt and an immediate, gripping fear of death. It is also the poem that “says” more than it “shows”—a consequence of the personal voice and the way the speaker almost steps out of the poem to address her father and how he has affected her. It is a poem defined by what it says rather than how it is worded. For my last poem, “Healing Hands,” I return to a simple and quiet language but retain a similarly personal voice—one of pain and constraint as the speaker struggles to escape the cyclical nature of trauma. I was inspired by Baraka’s “An Agony. As Now”—specifically, the way the speaker of the poem considers himself being “inside someone” and the detached way that he senses the world, as if separated from his own skin. The characters in my poem come together by lifting their protective barriers, opening each other

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up to vulnerability as well as a process of healing—a notion similar to Baraka’s strong allusions to metal and imprisonment as, paradoxically, ways that damage and preserve the inner self. Baraka’s poem is about the anguish of internalizing anti-blackness and self-hatred, and is therefore also political in its scope. Although my poem lacks a political angle, it nevertheless tries to illustrate the ways in which people come to terms with the damage caused by abuse—as well as the fear of that realization itself.

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EXIST ENT IA L ISM IN WRITING

E XI S TE NT IA LI S M IN W RI TIN G

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EXIST ENT IA L ISM IN WRITING

E XI S TE NT IA LI S M IN W RI TIN G

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R IL K E A N D T H E OUTC AS TS O F

RI L KE A N D T HE O UT C A S TS O F

‘ M A LT E L AUR IDS B RIGGE’

‘ M ALTE L AU RID S B RI GG E’

by Agnieszka Klimek

The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge (1910) is the only novel by the Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke. In this novel the narrator, who is the only distinct character, describes his experiences in Paris. Arriving in this city as the only descendant of an aristocratic Danish family, Malte sets himself the task of becoming a poet but the Paris that Malte discovers is not the city of artistic elegance as described by Walter Benjamin in the Arcades Project. It is not even a city of artistic extravaganza as depicted by Charles Baudelaire in his poems. The Paris that Malte discovers is a city of dirt, poverty and sickness. Shocked by his discovery Malte needs to learn how to cope with Paris before he learns how to become a poet. In the first entry to his notebooks (11 September, Rue Toullier ) Malte describes his first encounter with the city. Malte sees Paris through its hospitals, through its streets which are full of dirt and noisy automobiles. His senses are fully alert, but cannot bear the smell and the sound of the city. Malte’s disgust with Paris is so strong that even a baby or a pregnant woman repels him. Most of all Malte hates the fact that in Paris he is anonymous. Malte fears that deprived of his identity he will no longer be able to defend himself against these horrifying images of the city . It has often been suggested that the main issue of The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge is how Malte experiences Paris. In The Cambridge Companion to Rilke Huyssen argues that Malte’s experiences in Paris result in a deep crisis of subjectivity from which he cannot recover. In The Cambridge Companion to the Modern German Novel Pike argues that the city as experienced by Malte was to shape the form of the modern novel. In his Introduction to The Beginning of Terror: A Psychological Study of Rainer Maria Rilke Kleinbard linked Malte’s Parisian experiences to that of Rilke,

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R IL K E A N D T H E OUTC AS TS O F

RI L KE A N D T HE O UT C A S TS O F

‘ M A LT E L AUR IDS B RIGGE’

‘ M ALTE L AU RID S B RI GG E’

by Agnieszka Klimek

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who suffered similar anxiety while he was staying there. However, it is not only the city that Malte struggles to cope with, but also those who dwell in it; in particular the poverty-stricken, who not only inhabit the streets, but also haunt Malte’s imagination. A poor woman, startled by Malte’s footsteps, looks up and leaves her face buried in her hands. Horrified by the sight of her, Malte nonetheless cannot tear his eyes away for fear of seeing something much worse: “ I was appalled to see the inside of the facial mask, but I was far more terrified still of seeing a head bare and stripped of its face.” In this case it is not only the image of the covered face that terrifies Malte but what might be left of the face when the old woman removes her hands. It is possible to argue that the outcasts of Paris in The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge uncover a problem which is much more complex than just poverty and sickness in Paris at the beginning of twentieth century. It is possible that Malte fears the outcasts of Paris because in his observations of the poor he discovers a problem which he is unable to grasp. In the same passage where Malte describes the old woman he writes, “The poor should not be disturbed when they are lost in thoughts. The thing they are trying to think of may yet come to them.” Malte connects his observation of the outcasts of Paris to a profound insight: those who are poor, dirty and sick are closer to an understanding that Malte is unable to grasp. They are faces removed from their masks; and the first thing Malte learns in his task of becoming a poet is that they can be observed but they should not be disturbed. The question of the secret that the outcasts of Paris possess still remains unresolved. In his essay What Are Poets For? the German philosopher Martin Heidegger brings to examination the question which the aspiring poet Malte Laurids Brigge is unable to ask. In this essay, Heidegger explores the precise nature of a poet; moreover, the nature of a poet in difficult times when the death of god and birth of technology displaces the poet from the centre of life. From the beginning of his essay Heidegger stresses the fact that it is a hard task for a poet to find his place in an age of impoverished thinking and belief. Correspondingly, Malte cannot find his place in Paris at the beginning of the twentieth century but in distinction to Malte, who wants to learn how to see in order to become a poet, Heidegger suggests that seeing is only one part of poetic becoming. As the examination of the passage where Malte watches a poor woman shows, Malte believes that he

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need only observe the object in order to make it a subject of his poetry. However, Heidegger suggests that the only way to make the object the subject of poetry it is to experience it. Furthermore, for Heidegger this experience takes a very specific form. The true poet must experience the world in its purest and therefore most intense form, which is the world as an abyss: “In the age of the world`s night, the abyss of the world must be experienced and endured. But for this it is necessary that there be those who reach into the abyss.” For Heidegger only those poets who have the courage to experience the abyss are the real poets of our destitute times. But in order to grasp what Heidegger understood as “the abyss” it will be useful to explore some of his basic philosophical ideas. Heidegger’s thought belongs to a branch of philosophy called phenomenology. Unlike other philosophical systems, which are based on our power to reason through abstract thought, phenomenology is an enquiry that begins from our observation of everyday life. Heidegger makes existence a basic pillar of his major work Being And Time. For Heidegger our existence, that is, the structure of our conscious being, is the only essence that can be present in the world. Heidegger defines Dasein, which is his name for our form of being and the key concept of Being and Time, as the happening of existence, that being which is only insofar as its own being is at issue for it. As with Dasein in Heidegger’s Being and Time, the abyss in What Are Poets For? is being as presence that cannot be analyzed but only experienced. In this respect the outcasts of Paris possess a secret which is nothing but being. They are dirty, they are poor and meek, but they simply are but instead of experiencing them as being, Malte tries to analyze them as individuals, and that is probably the reason why Malte fails the task of becoming a poet. He would rather imagine himself as one of those happy poets of the past who: “tells of his window and of the glass doors of his bookcase, which offer a pensive reflection of the solitary, dearly loved distance.” Strolling around the streets of Paris, Malte comes across the ruins of a damaged house. Broken walls can no longer hide the truth of being in the uncovered pipes and pieces of broken furniture. This demolished house shows being stripped of its idealised image. The wall that is broken can no longer hold this image. Malte is shocked by this view: “I swear I broke into a run the moment I recognized that wall. For that is the terrible thing: I recognized it.” As Heidegger suggested “fear is anxiety, fallen into the

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world.” Malte fears the wall but his anxiety is inspired by what the wall used to cover. His problem is how to refuse all idealisation and accept being in its only, and therefore real, form. Malte’s identification with the outcasts of Paris underlines a deep issue. By trying to analyze rather than experience this part of society Malte fails in his task of becoming a poet because he misinterprets the concept of being. As Heidegger has suggested in his essay What Are Poets For? only the experience of real being holds a promise of real poetic experience. But Malte is too frightened to step into the abyss and believes that it is enough to watch the abyss from a safe distance. Although Malte’s identification with the outcasts of Paris holds for him a promise of real experience it also reveals the possibility of a threat. As Maurice Blanchot has pointed out, Malte’s fear of the outcasts of Paris uncovers a dangerous side of human nature: “The fear which arises in Malte [is an] anguish born out of oppressive strangeness, when all protective security is gone and suddenly the idea of human nature, of a human world in which we could take shelter collapses.” As Blanchot suggests, there must be something about human nature that threatens Malte. Even if Malte’s description of his experiences in Paris is hyper-sensitive and difficult to assess, there might be a recurring pattern in his portrayal of the outcast of Paris. Throughout the first part of The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge Malte describes the poor in a very strange manner. While depicting them Malte gives them features of animals. In one of his descriptions of the outcasts Malte gives them carnivalesque features. The term carnivalesque was introduced by Mikhail Bakhtin in his work Rabelais and His World to blur the boundary between what is animal and what is human. On the one hand, the people that Malte describes are still human with their dirty faces and untidy clothing but on the other hand, their body movements reveal something animalistic. At one moment, “they grin and wink at each other when no one is looking” and at another they “cling to a wall, a lamp post, a Morris column, or they dribble slowly down the street, leaving a dark, dirty trail behind them.” Similarly, in Malte’s description of a sick man who he follows along the Boulevard Saint-Michel there is no clear division between the features of the man and those of an animal. On the one hand, Malte watches the sick man who is experiencing powerful convulsions related to his illness but on the other, Malte sees in this man something inhuman: “Then his dark eyes flashed and he swaggered towards me with a satisfied air.” In Malte’s eyes the sick

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man is reduced only to his body which is full of compulsion, ugly and too animalistic to merit a human nature. H. R. Klieneberger argues that Malte is in a deep conflict with others. For Klieneberger, Malte is one of the last literary characters to suffer from “the romantic conflict between the individual of genius and the environment.” But as we have seen above, unlike the romantic hero Malte is not in a conflict with humanity but with human nature. It is the close scrutiny of human nature, which in The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge is represented by the outcasts of Paris, which repels Malte and which he cannot accept. Furthermore, in Malte’s eyes the outcasts of Paris, dirty, sick and dejected, have more to do with animals than human beings. Malte’s exaggerated prejudice uncovers a threat which had troubled humanity since the publication of The Origin of Species by Charles Darwin, where he claimed that the human race is not a product of cultural advance but of biological processes. For instance, in his work The Expressions of the Emotions in Man and Animals Darwin compared the way in which humans and animals express their emotions and found many similarities between them. From the end of nineteenth century literature has been trying to conquer the biological aspects of human nature. In particular Naturalism aimed to turn the laws of biology to literary work. In Naturalism on the Stage Emile Zola defined Naturalism as an “experiment on man” that can analyze and explain natural laws. Similarly, Malte also confronts the biological side of human nature but unlike Naturalism, which tries to contain it, his strategy is to escape. Garber has suggested that Malte escapes reality by turning to the memories of his childhood in Ulsgaard. Malte often recalls memories of his childhood but at some point his past also becomes uneasy and disturbing. While reflecting on his past Malte feels divided and lost, as his frequent allusions to portraits and mirrors suggest. For Malte, the best way to escape the animal in human nature is to find consolation in beauty. The only part of his past that Malte finds fully comforting is the one that brings the memory of Abelone, who for him was a pure incarnation of beauty. It is probably not an accident that the first part of The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge finishes with Malte imagining a kind of paradise where humans and animals are divided. Moreover, this is only possible in the presence of Abelone: “The animals gathered it up, and almost achieving simplicity in her majestic raiment, she steps forward.” But to distinguish between man and animal could be even more dangerous

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than to combine them. The outcasts of Paris are still there. To deny them is to reduce them to something worse than they really are. Malte’s fantasy of a new Eden reveals a real threat. It is a desire for perfection that tends to reject and destroy everything that is imperfect in our race. The same urge to perfect humanity is the machine culture that unfolded in the tragedy of the concentration camps. The danger of this position is stressed by Agamben in The Open: Man and Animal: “Perhaps concentration and extermination camps are also an experiment of this sort, an extreme and monstrous attempt to decide between the human and the inhuman.” Malte’s identification with the outcasts of Paris should be taken more seriously than simply an artistic crisis that the aspiring poet experiences in his youth. It opens difficult questions about being and the concept of human nature. However, Malte misunderstands both and interprets them as a possible threat. The concept of being as the only form of existence terrifies Malte. The real, biological nature of human beings repels him. But on the other hand Malte’s fear is the vehicle of Rilke’s novel, Heidegger’s judgment about the authentic artistic experience is possibly too restrictive to apply here since unlike Philosophy literature does not have to reach a conclusion. As Rilke commented in a letter to his wife: “And suddenly (and for the first time) I understand the fate of Malte Laurids. Isn’t it this: that this test exceeded his capacities, that he failed the trial of reality […]? The book of Malte Laurids, once it is written, will be but the book of this insight, proven in the failure of one for whom it was too vast, too great.” Perhaps it is the fact that Malte misunderstands everything around him that makes The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge such an original literary work.

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TOL STOY, C A MUS AND DEATH

TOL S TOY, C AM US AN D D E ATH

by Irina Jauhiainen

Leo Tolstoy’s The Death of Ivan Ilyich and Albert Camus’ The Outsider have many narrative similarities: both have as their protagonist a man who gets on with life without really reflecting on it; without any particular attempt to live to the fullest or awareness that it will not last forever. And both stories end with the protagonist having to face their inevitable death. Ivan Ilyich has been ill for a long time and the realisation that his illness is lethal has dawned on him after endless attempts at denial. Camus’ protagonist, Meursault, is on trial for shooting a man and after a long wait at the prison he understands that he is going to be executed. As soon as the understanding of the inevitability of having to die is expressed, the story ends. Each is, then, a story about coming to the realisation and acceptance of the fact that all human existence ends eventually, and that every individual must face their own death as their final experience in the world. The fact of inevitable death which each individual must face alone is a major concern in existentialist philosophy. According to Martin Heidegger, human life is a beingtowards-death: “Holding death for true does not demand just one definite kind of behaviour in Dasein,” he writes, “but demands Dasein itself in the full authenticity of its existence.” As Gaitanidis explains: “The very power which enables man to understand his death is, for Heidegger, the same power which makes it possible for him to gain understanding of his life. Man therefore ‘sees’ his life in the light of his death.” The defining quality of life, then, is temporality. Neither of these stories’ protagonists is fully aware of temporality during their lives, and therefore each story – as it narrates a life of someone unaware of their inevitable death – illustrates ways in which people avoid existential responsibility and fail to gain full understanding of their existence. Camus sees the source of existential anguish as the tension between the human need for meaning and recognition and the indifference of the universe towards human needs. The only way to overcome the anguish is to deny either side of the tension – admit that one has

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TOL STOY, C A MUS AND DEATH

TOL S TOY, C AM US AN D D E ATH

by Irina Jauhiainen

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needs as a human being and make believe that the universe is meaningful, or accept that the universe is meaningless and commit inner (or actual) suicide by succumbing to meaninglessness. The Death of Ivan Ilyich narrates, with impressive intensity considering its short word count, the life of an aristocratic man in mid-nineteenth century Russia. Ivan Ilyich is concerned with his place in society and does everything for the sake of status and propriety, giving little thought to what he really wants or what he could give to other people. He does not love his wife whom he married for money; he hardly notices his children. He does seemingly relax and enjoy drinking and playing cards with his friends but this is a way to pass time rather than a meaningful, pleasurable pursuit. Ivan is in bad faith, as the existentialist philosophers would call it less than a century later; he lives as others expect him to, not as he genuinely wants to live. Ivan is decorating his new living room to fit the fashions of the day when he falls and fatally injures himself. The effects of the injury are not immediately visible but after a couple of days he begins to experience internal pains and a bad taste in his mouth, and as the symptoms keep getting worse he gradually realises that the injury is slowly killing him. The realisation of his oncoming death is a terrifying and lonely experience. The realisation is only superficial at this stage, however; on the level of words, Ivan repeats “I am going to die”, but each time he does so he almost immediately negates the realisation with the phrase “It cannot be.” When Ivan actually accepts reality and sees his life in the light of his death, he feels as though he has lived ‘wrong’ and wasted his life. Although Camus rejected the term existentialist, The Outsider remains one of the best-known and most canonical existentialist texts. The protagonist, Meursault, is condemned to death for what the court claims is the random murder he commits, but the narrative in fact suggests that the court judges Meursault’s character rather than his actions. Meursault is a very different character from Ivan Ilyich; he does not care at all what others think. He lives in the moment and drifts along with whatever life brings him. When his girlfriend, Marie, suggests they get married, Meursault agrees half-heartedly, saying “it doesn’t matter” and that he “naturally” would have accepted a proposal from any other woman as well. He adapts to any situation he faces and even in prison he begins to think “like a prisoner”, “I’d look forward to my daily walk in the courtyard or to my lawyer’s visits. And I managed quite well the rest of the time.” Despite his radically

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changed conditions, Meursault retains his mild indifference towards the world until the last few pages of the novel. Both Ivan Ilyich and Meursault accept the reality of death only during their last moments. They are different examples of a person living in bad faith, for up until the approach of their respective deaths neither reflects on their mortality or attempts to value the quality of their life in the light of it. In both cases the revelation of death is the climax of the story, and perhaps it would be pointless to write an existentialist novel whose protagonist was already aware of their inevitable death; it is quite effective to portray the realisation in juxtaposition to a life lived unaware or in denial. Tolstoy, however, contrasts Ivan Ilyich’s life of bad faith with another character, the peasant Gerasim, who looks after Ivan in his final days. Both stories’ protagonists have a hard time accepting that their existence will come to an end, but a major concern also seems to be that other people will continue living once they die. “‘Well, then I’ll die.’ Sooner than other people, obviously. But everybody knows that life isn’t worth living […] it doesn’t matter very much whether you die at thirty or seventy since, in either case, other men and women will naturally go on living,” Camus’ protagonist muses. When Ivan Ilyich first realises (but does not fully accept) that he is dying, he feels great resentment towards the fact that his family members are still alive and well, and even daring to enjoy themselves while he is lying on his deathbed. He hears music and singing from another room and thinks, “They don’t care, but they’re going to die too. Fools! Me first, then them.” Perhaps this is a prominent part of coming to realise one’s personal death: everyone is used to others dying, in which they remain as a subject that goes on living when the object, the other person, ceases to exist; the observer experiences loss but not the actual death. One’s own death, however, is a reversal of this subject/object relation and the individual has to become the object of this common phenomenon, before the final extinction of their subjectivity. “The ‘dying’ of Others is something that one experiences daily,” Heidegger writes: each individual subject experiences the existence of the world as conditional on their own perception; to realise that other centres of consciousness will continue to exist after one’s own death dissolves the ego and renders utterly meaningless the subjective self. In the afterword to The Outsider, Camus describes his novel as a “story of a man who, without any heroic pretensions, agrees to die for the truth.” Similarly to Sartre, Camus seems to be suggesting that the manner of a

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person’s death is central to understanding the quality of their existence. If understanding life requires understanding death, the living a life in denial of, or refusing to think about, death would be quite tragic, or an incomplete life. Gaitanidis (1999) discusses two possible ways of relating to death once its inevitability has been accepted: regulative and constitutive. Tolstoy’s story illustrates the regulative way, the way “fear of death […] regulates the way that man acts or lives in relation to his coming to an end.” The authenticity gained from accepting death guides Gerasim’s choices in life but Ivan adopts this attitude too late. However, there is a sense that had he become aware of the inevitability of his own death sooner, it would have significantly changed the way he lived his life. Camus shows a more constitutive approach, which Gaitanidis explains as “Not only is man […] free from the fear of death, but, in accepting death, he even regards it as the most necessary ingredient in appropriating the kind of life that he leads.” Even though Meursault gains awareness of his own coming death only when facing execution, his last moments are significantly eased by the lack of fear and the complete acceptance that he is going to die, and this seems like a perfectly natural end. Close to his execution Meursault perceives how meaningless he is in relation to the vastness of the universe but is comforted by rather than frightened by it: “I looked up at the mass of signs and stars in the night sky and laid myself open for the first time to the benign indifference of the world.” Camus, then, seems to be suggesting that death is nothing to be afraid of in any case. Life itself is of value and to be cherished but everyone dies eventually no matter what lives they have led. At whatever age a person dies there will always be other people who go on living, and therefore it “does not matter very much whether you die at thirty or seventy.” Tolstoy’s story conveys more of a moral perspective: if one has lived authentically, death is nothing to fear. Everyone and everything has to face death, which makes it a perfectly natural part of life, rather than a horrifying injustice or misfortune, which is how Ivan initially reacts to the fact of his imminent death. Whilst acceptance does eventually occur for Ivan, he goes through moments when he feels it has been in vain to have lived at all since living does not last. Loy discusses the opposing arguments in Heidegger’s Being and Time and Sartre’s Being and Nothingness: in Sartre’s view “Death is never that which gives life its meaning, but […] that which in principle removes all

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meaning from life.” What meaning could existence have if it is going to end, and especially since nothing that one does during that existence can stop it from ending? “It’s not possible that life could have been as senseless and sickening as this,” Ivan frets on his deathbed. “And if it really has been as senseless and sickening as this why do I have to die, and die in agony? There’s something wrong.” It seems as though the natural order of the whole life and death dynamic is flawed by design, and that this really is not how it should be. The need for meaning and the sense of self one develops during one’s existence feels too important for this existence to end so quickly and prosaically. The discord between our individual feeling of importance and the way death’s inevitability renders this meaningless is, at least in Camus’ definition of the word, the source of the absurdity of life. One possible way to avoid this constant discord of the individual sense of importance and the nature of existence is to take control of the situation by actively ending one’s own existence. According to Fairfield “suicide, for Camus, is at least in many cases an expression of the conviction that life has become absurd.” The acceptance of life’s absurdity often leads to a nihilist attitude: that this world cannot be there for people to live in, but because God is dead and there is no afterlife, there is no alternative world where one would feel any less estranged. Existence itself is then meaningless and wrong. In the words of Emil Cioran, “since there is no salvation in either existence or nothingness, let this world […] be smashed to pieces!” This is not far from existentialism, which also does not pretend that humans belong to this world or that there is an alternative world that is more welcoming; however, the existentialist attitude is more accepting of the tensions characteristic of human consciousness in an unwelcoming world. Nietzsche’s solution to being able to “endure to live in a meaningless world” was the “will to power,” a forceful resolution to continue to exist; its polar opposite would be to completely end one’s existence by committing suicide. Loy suggests an alternative, which is to go on living while surrendering to the despair of meaninglessness, since “When we despair in the right way…[a] bandoning the hope that we will eventually become something, we yield to our nothingness and discover that […] we have always been everything.” The existentialists would, of course, consider Loy’s yogic approach as bad faith, but a deeper consideration shows that this approach is not, in practice, too far from Heidegger’s.

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Although the novels do not spell out any particular attitude towards individual death, they are successful in capturing the intensity of a person’s conflicted feelings when faced with the realisation that they are, indeed, going to die soon. The novels illustrate the state of denial or indifference rather than the state of mind after realisation or acceptance; the fact that each story ends soon after the acceptance of death takes place in the character’s mind suggests that the story has reached its resolution and there is no more story to tell. Neither story demonstrates a clear attitude of what should be the existentialist’s relationship with death; the reader has a chance to wonder and reflect alongside the characters. The most important message of these works of fiction is thus present through negation: the reader can get a sense of how much more authentic and significant the lives of Meursault and Ivan Ilyich might have been had they accepted death and lived their lives authentically much earlier on.

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A BOUT T H IS B O O K

A B OU T THI S BO O K

This project is the result of a collaboration between staff and students from two creative disciplines in The Cass – the writers of the English Literature and Creative Writing department, and the illustrators and graphic designers of the Visual Communication department. Staff leading the project were Alistair Hall (lecturer, Visual Communication), Angharad Lewis (lecturer, Visual Communication) and Trevor Norris (course leader, English Literature and Creative Writing). The concept and design of the book were devised by students in the 2016/17 Visual Communication studio, Impression. They worked in teams to research, develop and pitch several designs and formats for the book, with successful ideas being developed to create the final design. The students each designed and printed an individual visual response to a particular piece of writing in the book, some of which can be seen on the chapter openers in the book. All the works were exhibited at Bank Space Gallery, The Cass in June 2017.

Image Credits:

p.1 From Life Writing to Fiction illustration by Billy Klofta, p.36 Literary London illustration by John Sinha, p.78 The Novel and The Contemporary World illustration by Shalini Nandakumar, p.88 Book Print Hypertext illustration by Ee Zin Teh, p.106 Contemporary Poetry: Theory & Practice illustration by Jubedha Akther, p.138 Existentialism in Writing illustration by Maria Klimko.

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A BOUT T H IS B O O K

A B OU T THI S BO O K

Image Credits:

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A BOUT T H E C AS S

AB O UT TH E C A S S

The Cass (The Sir John Cass School of Art, Architecture and Design, London Metropolitan University) provides high quality Foundation, Degree and Postgraduate education at purpose built workshops and studios in Aldgate. There is a strong emphasis on socially engaged Architecture, Art and Design applied to both local and global contexts, a school-wide interest in making and many projects focus on aspects of London. Students at The Cass are encouraged to learn through practice, experiment with process and gain real-world experience in both individual and collaborative projects, engaging with professionals, communities and companies.

www.londonmet.ac.uk/thecass

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A BOUT T H E C AS S

AB O UT TH E C A S S

www.londonmet.ac.uk/thecass

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ACK N OW L EDGMENTS

ACK N OWL ED GM EN TS

With thanks to: the many staff and students of the English Literature & Creative Writing and Visual Communication departments who dedicated time and creative energy to this book; to Andy Stone, Christopher Emmett and Susanna Edwards for supporting the project from start to finish, and the staff at The Print Centre, London Metropolitan University.

Impression studio 2016/17:

Hussein Abdullah Jubedha Akther Maria Cueva Paucar Hannah Gilbank Indre Jonikaite Finnian Kidd Maria Klimko Billy Klofta Puro Laevuo Ellie Lewis Silvia Liano Cameron Little Katherine Lozada Echeverria Shalini Nandakumar Hannah Phillips Ahmed Saleh John Sinha Ee Zin Teh

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ACK N OW L EDGMENTS

ACK N OWL ED GM EN TS

Impression studio 2016/17:

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Anthology I

Articles inside

Rilke and the outcasts of ‘Malte Laurids Brigge’ by Agnieszka Klimek

Myth in the Poetry of Ted Hughes by Anser Shah

Aarseth’s Ergodic Theory by Kayleigh Kember

OuLiPo, Workshop of Potential Literature by Lorraine Cappoccia

Poetry for School by Jack Houston

Six Poems by Krysta Lee Quejada Frost

Tolstoy, Camus and Death by Irina Jauhiainen