UppLit 8_Spring Term 2023

UppLit

Contributors

Uppingham Pupils

“In Another Life…”

Mr Addis Dionysus and the Pirates

Elsie Barnett and Grace Edmunds

The Hand and the Goat

Sophie Bird “Nightmare”

Riley Chan “Silence”

Beatrice Furnell “Paralysed”

Joey Leahy

Break From Reality

Florrie Lewis “Panic”

Kerecsen Martin

Purpose – a place bereft of wanderers

“Symphony of Sins”

When we meet again

Alejandro Peña-Mibelli “Bones” “Prayers”

Adam Roberts “Explorer”

Eloise Roberts Hunted Rabbit

Flora Scott-Harden “Trapped”

George Webster “Shadow”

Poppy Webster “Scream of Life”

Zac Whearity Dystopian Romeo and Juliet

Miss Williams

The Libera Line: A Legacy

Olie Yablonka-Clark “Mercy”

Editors’ Book Reviews

Ethan Cousins

Alejandro Peña-Mibelli

H G Wells, The Island of Doctor Moreau

Natsume Sōseki, I am a Cat

Editors’ note

Welcome to the eighth edition of Upplit. In this issue we have gothic inspired pieces by the Fourth Form and the Lower Fifth, as well as more contributions from staff. Mr Addis continues his poetic exploration of Greek mythology and Miss Williams gives us a taste of “The Libera Line: A Legacy”, a piece that we hope to see more of in the future.

We are also introducing the Editors’ Book Reviews, where we review and recommend books that we think should be on your reading list. In this issue we highlight The Island of Doctor Moreau, and I am a Cat and hope to hear your thoughts on them.

We hope you enjoy this collection and we are looking forward to what will be submitted for the next issue.

Ethan Cousins, Mia Pinaeva and Alejandro Peña-Mibelli

Uppingham pupils “In

Another Life”

Dionysus and the Pirates

The god Dionysus, you’ll most often find is Neck deep in some wine with his dinner. Or watching a play, with little dismay as comeuppance occurs to the sinner. He is the god, whose been given the nod to organise wine, dance and song. The Greek Bacchanalia were ever in favour with him for all the day long. But if you might think, this partying kink meant there was no serious edge; You’d be much mistaken, and possibly shaken by what some of the stories allege. When he was young, the demi-god hung around the Ionian coast.

But then he decided that he should be guided, to the Greek lands he’d heard of the most. He chartered a ship, in which he could slip, over the sea without strife.

But it can’t have been more, than one day from shore, when he was in danger of losing his life!

A big gang of pirates, eyes squinting and irate barged their way onto his vessel. Demanding their money, not to do anything funny, or they’d end up in a dangerous wrestle. Now Dionysus sat calmly, as the sea lapped so balmy against the broad lip of the craft. Behind his gold eyes, the ire did rise, accompanied by a sinister laugh. Rising from the deep, with an unnatural creep came the whispering wriggle of vines. Their ominous strength, surrounded the length of the boat, with broad leaves and sharp tines. The pirates did panic, and with speed brought by manic distress, did leap to the ocean. But whilst in mid dive, with a gasp and writhe, as their bodies convulsed in this motion: Their arms became flat, their skin became matte and their legs fused from hip to below knee Their noses stretched out, necks developed a spout and their shouts became a “Kikikikiki.”

Now instead of those thugs, and robbers who’d mug all the ships going from Turkey to Greece, a new pod of dolphins, stuffed full with endorphins swam in the blue finally at peace.

And it just goes to show, that everyone should know to never take a god by surprise, as even the one who is focused on fun is happy to cause your demise.

Elsie Barnett and Grace Edmunds The Hand and the Goat

The hand is trying to punish the goat for eating too much grass. At the moment, he is pleading guilty. The dark revolting room is used for criminal torture. The smoke coming from the used cigarettes cannot escape. Every second you stay in there, the more smoke fills your lungs until finally you can no longer breath. The smoke fills the air until the only thing you can see is the fingertip pointing at you, waiting for you to admit your crime.

(Goat is waiting for his lawyer)

Goat: bleat bleat bleat

(Hand does not care and slaps the goat in the face)

Hand: (does sign language)

(The goat hears the echoing sound of the clock ticking, waiting for the lawyer to come)

Goat: bleat bleat

(Hand slaps down a piece of paper)

Hand: (does sign language)

(The goat looks a bit confused)

Goat: bleat bleat bleat

(The hand says it is a confession paper)

Hand: (does sign language)

(The goat does not sign it)

Goat: bleat bleat bleat bleat

(The hand gets angry and kills the goat)

Hand: (does sign language)

Pointing at the goat:

Hand: Hello

Goat: Hi

Hand: Your future looks mystical

Goat: How do you know?

Hand: Why did you kill the pig?

Goat: Why are you a massive hand?

Hand: This is no game and if it was, I have the upper hand! Did you eat the pig?

Goat: Fine Yes, I did.

Hand: Whatever floats your goat!

———————

Hand: What reality show did you go on?

Goat: Britain’s – goat talent.

Goat: To be honest I don’t know how I got here.

Hand: Now let’s get to the interview; I’ve had my goatmeal and I’m ready to roll!

Goat: I don’t know how I got into the fight.

Hand: I got a new pair of gloves today, but they’re both ‘lefts,’ which on the one hand is great.

———————

Hand: If I have five oranges in one hand and six in the other, what do I have?

Very big hands.

Goat: Oh, my goat.

Hand:

SUSPENSION?

Image courtesy of DeviantArt.

Sophie Bird “Nightmare” Riley Chan “Silence”

Terrified and trembling, I stood there. Eyes wide and biting my nails with utter fear. A large, shadowed figure standing before me, edging closer and closer and closer. I could hear the little shuffling footsteps lurking behind me. I didn’t want to turn around, not for the slightest second, because I didn’t know what the thing in front of me could have accomplished in that time. Could it kill or eat me alive or bring me to something that I would be sacrificed for? So many different thoughts running through my mind. What was behind me and what was in front? Closer and closer it came. Still trembling, heart pounding so fast I thought it was going to explode out of my chest. I carefully took a step back. I heard a growl. The next thing I knew is that it was running at me. I closed my eyes and hoped nothing bad would happen. A minute later I woke up, under my duvet and eyes wide open.

Unending silence, Creates mental violence, The shaking of bones, And all the groans.

Clicking and clacking, Bones ever cracking, Heart keeps on beating, And head keeps on heating.

Yet it’s still cold, The pockets I hold, The smooth silky fabric, And the words that I’m told.

The river keeps flowing, As the crows keep on crowing, Then smooth singing silence, hails, The biting of nails.

Darkness its peak, Yet colours keep sneak, Like eyes closed in sleep, True dark will stay creep.

Beatrice Furnell “Paralysed”

I’m trapped. I know that is not true; I can feel and think, but when I think harder, I realise that I can’t move. Not a leg, not a finger; I can’t even open my eyes. I panic inside my head for a moment, and then realise, if I can’t move, then what am I going to do? Nothing; that’s the answer I give myself after a while.

I try to listen; there is a beeping that I can hear; what is that? There are voices, three I think, they sound upset. I try to speak, but my mouth doesn’t move, no words come out. The more I focus, the more I can hear, words like ‘injuries’ and ‘years’, but that one was said as a question, and I don’t quite know what that means.

I stay like this for a while, not moving, silent and listening intently, the beeping is still there, but the voices have left, and, I think, without them I feel almost lonely.

I don’t know how long I am there, but being there, in the dark, unable to move, scares me a little, and I try to speak, but the words, no matter how hard I try, just won’t come out of my mouth.

The voices are back, someone is weeping I think and I try to call out for help, to get anyone to pull me out of whatever is happening to me. But nothing happens, no one saves me.

Joey Leahy Break from Reality

I’ve been having dreams for a while. Each one is different, but also the same. They all start the same way, with it appearing. What happens through the rest varies, but the ending is inescapable. She always goes, and the screams are painful to hear.

I lived with my mother for most of my life. We lived away from the city in a little house on a hill. It was a secluded area, and the nearest town was a good half hour drive. We were almost cut off from the outside world. That is what made the events I am about to describe infinitely more terrifying.

On the 12th of October 2015, I had the first nightmare. It was just a month after my mum told me she had schizophrenia. She had been on the decline and I had started to take over the housework. I was considering getting another job, but mother refused. She said I should stay in school as that would benefit me more. I didn’t agree but alas, I complied. My situation worsened when her condition started to get worse. It seemed like she didn’t have schizophrenia but something else. The night before the nightmare, I had seen a horror. This woman that I called my mother had turned into a beast. I could not sleep that night for the fear of seeing that beast struck me too hard. Believe me when I say if you had seen what I saw, I doubt you would sleep again.

The beast was giant, I would guess 9 feet tall. However, it would never stand on its full height, it would be on all fours patrolling the halls of the house. I wondered what it would do if it found me. So, I hid in my cupboard and prayed that my mother was alright. It was the next morning when I saw her lying on the floor as if she had passed black out drunk. I tried as hard as I could to get on with my day, but it was nearly impossible. That image kept returning to me. The image of that thing crawling around.

The nightmare itself was the worst. I woke up in the middle of the field. I could see the silhouette of my mother in the distance. I chased after her and when I finally caught her, she let out a deathly scream. Then I saw it again. That thing. It chased me through the dark fields. I could hear my mother trying as hard as she could to break out of its control. When it finally caught me, I knew that was it for me. As I was torn apart, I could hear my mother screaming that she was sorry. Then I would wake up.

Then one day, the same exact thing happened. But this time it was not a dream. Everything felt too real. The smell of field was too strong for a dream. Then I saw her. My mother. I knew this was my end. I had tried to escape the dream before and it always ended the same way. It was hopeless.

Florrie Lewis “Panic”

I started to taste blood. The skin on the end of my fingers had turned to a paste. My nails were no longer visible: I had bitten them so much. I didn’t know what else to do. I could feel my eyes watering. My eyes felt like someone had poured a bottle of soap in them. I dared not to blink in case it came back.

Kerecsen Martin - Purpose: A Place Bereft of Wanderers

let the lustful melodies ring out pursuing a listener gorging themselves with fruitless whims or whispers of treacherous turnings

abide not by their calls smothering younglings and drowning sparks of prodigious inspiration let them wallow in their solitude

silent voices must not be shunned for they are the future listen

let dulcet tones lay softly upon the world on beds of galvanizing lilies or fragrant trumpets touched only by the soft caress of nature

watch Time’s lazy hands drift beyond the gap of reality

all faces turn to one of numbers noughts and lines reckless in its defecation

let placid souls digress and famished men confess to reach their tailored goal infused with self-control while the rest dream on until they sing as one

“Symphony of Sins” When We Meet Again

When Time grows old and faces fade Between th’eternal sombre glade; When mothers live beyond their spawn For whom they cared, and now they mourn.

When beetles burrow beneath flesh To feast on memories, bleak and fresh; When lovers languish failed attempts At gaining trust, igniting sense.

When furnished shrubs and trees grow limbs And Vulcan’s forging fire dims –When paintings melt upon the wall; Fluid imaginations fall.

When supernovae spread their soot On every path, below each foot, When walkways weave a winding tale Of warning, but to no avail.

When every tune and melody Sing together a symphony Beelzebub will gayly glow, Praising us – for we made it so.

There will come a day When you persist, and I have departed. O how I wish I could keep trailing on in your shadow, Or be there to see your reaction. But I’d probably be disappointed; my hopes are too high For a magnificent exit. It won’t be mine.

Loneliness is a sublime concept –Both blissfully rewarding and brutally degrading. And though I recall my darkest moments of solitude, I am content in my decisions, Even now, as this bitter night gnaws at my hands, Desperately trying to stop me.

I see now why so many of us have fallen Not by others’ hands, but our own. Stability is a falsehood – it takes but a feather To topple the decades-tall tower. One moment of realisation can last An eternity in the right heart.

I shall watch my breath float away into the evening a few moments more, Stare blankly at the frosted moon and its companions, Lost in the past:

Contemplating what remains –Not much, bar the possibility I may accompany you once again someday.

With a blank mind.

Alejandro Peña-Mibelli “Bones” Adam Roberts “Explorer”

My bones! My bones! They have taken my bones! Where is my angel? The rushing of wing?

The marble is shattered, My bones have been plundered, Fragments to fragments of soft prayers cling.

“Prayers”

To my dear friend, Benedict Braddock.

Alejandro Peña-Mibelli Prayers is two syllables: Pray – ers. So there.

It was a cold dark night, and evil was at play. One explorer took a wrong turn. As the sun said goodbye and the night enveloped all, an eerie feel clouded the earth. Meanwhile, an explorer sets out on what might be his last journey ever. The clouds block the moon. This explorer started to progress on his journey through some wood. This wood was unlike any other. Everyone alive knew it was haunted. But this explorer thought that was all a lie. He set out with high hopes to disprove everyone’s thoughts of this mysterious woodland. As he made his way through the wood, he started to notice something. He heard a strange and constant drone in the background of everything that he could hear. The explorer came up on a valley in the wood. In this valley the explorer found a cave. As soon as he approached the cave the drone became louder and louder. He finally reached the cave, and after a moment, he entered. Inside the cave the noise was almost unbearable, but as he took his first steps the noise went deathly quiet. The explorer quickly moved on and came to a narrow doorway, a crack in the cave wall, just wide enough for him to stretch through. As he went through, he came into a humongous open space. He stopped dead in his tracks. Along with the big cave there was a fire burning right in the middle. There were three silhouettes displayed all over the wall. He ran.

Eloise Roberts Hunted Rabbit

Oh God.

I am supposed to be at school by now. Maybe. What time even is it?

I really shouldn’t have left my sports watch on the bedside table. I could have sworn on Alice’s life that I was in bed a minute ago. My bed. My warm bed.

Oh God.

I can hear my raspy breathing, almost unrecognisable, the kind I have never heard from my own voice, if that is really what it was. Mum will be horrified when she finds out where I am.

I probably will be too. When I find that out.

The path that lies before me seems to dwindle and spiral uncontrollably into the far distance. I feel as though I am a lolling imp, face down, floating in the sea I know only too well, gasping for air as the fair scene of a faraway marine world proudly poses from miles ahead.

Oh God no.

In a painful jerk of reality, I realise I can’t see further than that tree, a dreadfully long metre ahead.

Oh, where am I?

I should be in maths by now, surely. Even Mr. Parkin would be looking for me. I can only beg and pray to the deathly-beautiful sunrise that he is. Ok, calm down.

Gather your thoughts now. Arrange them. That’s surely what Alice would do if she were in this wretched forest with me. I hope. Breathe, breathe.

Then, a noise. Stabbing right through my train of thought like a spiked bloodrose, I feel my tired and weary head fold upwards to soak in the unsettling evergreen setting. An animal. A deer. Surely. Please.

My blurred eyes catch a hooded figure as it flies across the cobbled road at blinding speed, across to the cluster of a towering oak. No, no.

At this moment in time, I couldn’t move a jelly-like trunk of a leg even if I wanted to. For the life of me, I cannot get rid of any irrational emotion, and the fear of the unknown drowns me whole.

The noise gets louder still. Twigs snapping, crunching through my broken mind beneath someone or something’s weighted steps. Louder still.

Someone help me. Begging and praying would be useless to me now. Anyone.

And so I only do the natural thing. I scream.

Flora Scott-Harden “Trapped”

I stood, hands in my mouth, trying to still my breath so as not to give myself away. In the corner of my eye I could see the three figures outlined against the moonlight. Concealed in the dark, trying to be silent, my heartbeat betrayed me, like the rapid pounding of a drum. It filled my head, pounding my skull. They must be able to hear it, so clear I could see in my mind’s eye the drummer beating so hard his arm was a blur. They were coming now, closer and closer, their heads almost blocking out the light. One tripped, hitting the floor by my feet. I lent hard against the wall as if it could swallow me, shield me, help me escape. One of them was coming to help his friend, the corner of his coat brushed my wrist; I held my breath as he walked on, kneeling over the ground. Rising with his friend, blood was trickling out his nose. The three wandered to the entrance with their bloodied companion and settled on the grass blocking my only escape. I wanted to run but, where.

George Webster “Shadow”

Turning around, I saw it. There it stood before me, looking into my soul. I was frozen to the spot as the terror coursed through my body. My nails were bleeding as I just realized I had bitten them to almost nothing, because of the pure terror taking over me. I felt like I was in a nightmare, as the shadow moved closer to me and closer until the silhouette began to fade and the being stepped out of the darkness. I knew it was the end.

Poppy Webster “Scream of Life”

I could feel my scream bursting out of me; my mouth opened, expressing my thoughts and feelings. I was trapped. Trapped inside of my own mind without anywhere to go or anywhere to hide. The stream of emotions that were tumbling out of my mouth echoed all around me, wrapping around me and constricting my movement; it was controlling me, tightening as I tried to move. Struggling, I felt the rivers flowing down my cheeks, the saltiness in my mouth like I was floating in the sea, the waves around me crashing down filling my ears. Suddenly it stopped. I was lying on the cold ground, my heart beating through my chest, my lungs moving so quickly it gave the illusion I was writhing on the floor. I had a feeling of emptiness within me, the sweat on my forehead was dripping down and my brow was furrowed with worry. Was it a dream? Where am I? These questions spun around my brain not stopping like a runner running around the track. I tried to get up, but my legs and body felt weak, felt helpless.

Zac Whearity Dystopian Romeo and Juliet

A city. The city, their city wasn’t quite the same. It was tortuously cold, wells of frost and snow leached on buildings and car shells like tumours. A frosted bridge still stands, as though it were frozen in time over a large river; a train laid mangled and preserved perfectly keeping the condition of the wreck after the accident. A little time capsule, as it were. The city streets were the best source of refuge. The sleet and hail tend to be carried overtop the frosty buildings by the everlasting wind, it’s rarely able to make it in between the crevasses and down to the ‘roads’.

As a matter of the fact, the streets were probably the safest place to be. Safe from wind, safe from sleet and so on, but not so safe from them. No, not at all. They’re what makes the streets a scary place to be, safe, but scary. Unsurprisingly, not a lot is heard in the streets. The violent air rushed through like a constant wind tunnel howling and cackling inadvertently in its wake making any sound inaudible to the streets – unless you were close.

There was a clunk among the howling. Silence. Clunk. Silence. Then a crack and a clunk and a smash. Silence. Then a crack and a clunk and a smash and a yell and boom! Crashing down came the hotel door. The cold had cursed it, made it so weak and brittle that it basically shattered upon landing intemperately on the icy floor. Out stepped three, disconsolate looking men. Covered head to toe in rags tied together by loose pieces of cable and string, they stumbled drunkenly onto the streets.

“We men are old enough to realize that we must keep the peace!” Capulet wheezed, his breath swirling and dancing around his face as though smoking a pipe in the freezing, cursed air.

“You’re right; it’s such a shame that you’ve lived as enemies for so long. But now, my lord, what do you say to my request?” Paris said; his breath too wisped off ahead of his face; it quickly disappeared.

“What I’ve said before; my daughter is new to the world, she has not seen the change of 14 years. Give her two more years, and we shall consider her to be a bride.”

“But she’s young, she’s happy. As well, who knows how many years we have left.”

“No! This will ruin her; all my other children have been ripped from my burning heart by the tempestuous earth! She is my pride and hope in this desolate world, a shell of what it once was. However, find her, Paris, a love. My consent is only one factor in her decision. If she agrees, then I will consent to the marriage. Tonight, I shall hold a feast in the old army barracks. I will invite many survivors, and you are of course invited. It is beautiful girls that make the dark heaven bright! Ensure those that come are well dressed. You will dance among young, beautiful women tonight at the barracks, their excellence will impress the men. Scout for the one who sees my daughter. Come here, servant. Send out an invite at once! The barracks are open and welcoming to all tonight.”

The Libera Line: A Legacy

Watching from the corner of her eye as others filed into the chapel, keeping their conversations to a dull murmur, Eliot slid a glove from her hand and flicked a tear away. The clouds held the weight of the snow; poised and ready to drop at any moment, the sun’s light refused to offer any warmth.

This day had finally come.

She had often considered it as a child, and more recently in her teenage years, how the time would pass, he would move on, she would be left alone and then she would be the only Archer left. The chatter had subsided, and she remained rooted to the spot at the far end of the car park with her fingers numbed from the cold snap that had taken a stranglehold on December.

A door slammed. She turned on her heels and saw them. Six men, black robes skimming the first frost of the season as they slid him onto their shoulders. Each step they took was slow, agonizingly slow. They moved in unison through the stained-glass doors into the chapel of Bryerton College, their footsteps muted and dull. His final resting place would be here, on the grounds of this vast chapel. The plot, small and tucked into a corner of the graveyard, lay in wait, ready to seal his fate.

Her hands trembled as she retrieved the speech she had stowed away in her pocket. Mere memories of him, scrawled in her hand late the night before, littered the page and she scanned the words. The lump wedged in her throat was becoming impossible to dislodge and, as she followed the procession, behind the low cleric, she wished to be anywhere but here. Not now. Not ever. Her head felt light and every movement it made was slow. Eliot shuffled into the space that had been reserved for her and the tears threatened to fall again. Eliot cast her head down to avoid anyone’s gaze and spied a loose thread dangling from the bottom of the hastily purchased and itchy dress. Ill fitting, it made her feel like a foreigner in her own body. She picked at the thread, encouraging it in its destruction, she began to twist and turn it, coiling it around her forefinger, allowing it to dig into her flesh. She imagined that the pain was there, she could not feel anything, but the threat of a bruise lingered. Pressing down on each bulbous section of her finger, she then unraveled the thread, tucking it back into the hem, tracing the indentations with her fingernail until the feeling returned. Eliot nibbled a little at the skin on her thumb, resisting the temptation to gnaw at her nail.

A hand stretched out, rested on the back of hers and gently moved her hand away from her mouth. A couple of taps of reassurance began to quell her racing pulse. She bit her lip a little and squeezed her eyes shut. Do not cry today, do not cry today. She repeated the mantra she had recited over and over in her mind from the moment she woke that morning. The hand remained with hers and it gave another squeeze, so she leant into the shoulder of her best friend for a moment staring at the ceiling vaults, counting each family crest hanging from their ancient beams. Her eyes followed the crisscrossing pattern and wondered how long it took to build the wooden frame of this chapel. How heavy each beam must be and how many men needed to get it up there. Did they have winches and pulleys, or did they have scaffolding, like they used for the pyramids?

All The Archers, The Withearts, The Bryertons, The Yarmingtons, The Bards; so many families throughout the centuries had studied, taught and governed their people from this very college.

Eliot sighed a deep, heavy sigh and listened to the droning of the High-Cleric and focused on the back of the head of the man sitting in front of her. The wisps of hair danced and twirled as she blew gently. She imagined what he would do if she were to reach out and touch the back of his head smoothing the hair down. Would he move, shudder, tell her off maybe? She blew again and the hair once again fluttered. Stifling a laugh under her breath she felt Jasper’s knee nudge hers.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

The clocks, maps, and paintings of The Five Graces that hung from the walls were unlit, as was customary at the funeral of a prominent member of the Sacred Council. The whole community of Trans-temporals seemed to have turned out today, for him. Shrouded in darkness, the largest of the timepieces in the chapel, The Ancient, slept under a thin black cloth, the ticking dulled and muffled.

A coffin. The Graces to watch over him and all of time to mourn him.

(Perhaps more will follow: readers… watch this space)

Olie Yablonka-Clark “Mercy”

One glance, Two guns

Three Souls, Four men

Four walls, Three trees

Two eyes, One heart

One Boss, Two Guards

Three minutes, Four lights

Four Bodies, Three souls

Two shots, One kill, No trace

Book Reviews

H.G. Wells, The Island of Doctor Moreau

“The novel follows the narrative of Edward Prendick, a shipwrecked man who is rescued and left on an island, this being Doctor Moreau’s home. Prendick then learns about Moreau and his experiments focused on creating human-like creatures from animals via vivisection.

Wells uses Moreau’s experiments to explore a multitude of themes including class, the distinction between law and religion and the question of what differentiates men (i.e humans) from animals. The exploration of these themes impacts upon the reader more than one would expect as the descriptions of the sadistic “medicine” that Moreau is practising is starkly juxtaposed with the functional society of the hybrids on the island.

Prendick acts as a surrogate for the audience, allowing emotions and sympathy to be created, sympathy too for the hybrids as they have an understanding of their creation and fear Moreau, a relationship with is deeply connected to religion.

A short and easily digestible novel, there is no reason why it shouldn’t be in your knowledge, especially in comparison with other books of the time, as this was published in the boom of medicine and the refusal of this from the religious community. For GCSE pupils, The Island of Doctor Moreau, although not on your syllabus, can help you in further understanding the opinion of science and Darwinism at the time.

A book that truly speaks for itself, a must-read so to speak, should have a place on your study shelf, as there is something in it for every reader and it is one of the most impressive pieces of literature, in my opinion, from the late 19th century.

Natsume Sōseki, I am a Cat

‘I am a cat. As yet I have no name’. So begins one of the best books I have ever read, a book I’m not really qualified to review at all. It is a tale of love, poetry, art, and the grinding of glass balls, but at its heart, I am a Cat is a satirical period piece made up of several short stories told from the perspective of a cat in the Meiji era of Japan. A simple premise, with excellent execution; a book rich with social commentary, satire, and irony. I am not exaggerating when I say it ranks among the greatest books of all time. It immortalises the social upheaval of the Meiji era with a cynical and witty narrator whose perspective of human nature contrasts with his own lofty opinions of himself to provide a unique view on the human condition from an outside lens.

The book explores a variety of themes, foremost among them the westernisation of Japanese society. the clash of western culture and Japanese tradition is explored through the everyday middle-class struggles of the cat’s master, the schoolteacher Sneaze, and his rogue’s gallery of friends, such as the pathological liar and chronic layabout Waverhouse, the scholarly romantic Coldmoon, and the poetic Beauchamp, as they clash with their successful businessman peers and those whom Natsume scathingly labels ‘modern men’.

Every character in the book is a sort of personified joke, each one built around a bundle of comedic flaws, and brought to life by Natsume’s superb characterisation. Consider, for example, the aforementioned Sneaze, a man who wouldn’t recognise subtext if it shaved his moustache off. A charicature of Natsume himself in his teaching days, he is a middle-class, middle-aged teacher perpetually short on money of a somewhat cantankerous and completely oblivious nature who views the social change of his time, and businessmen in particular, with mild disdain, but is hilariously nowhere near as cultured or educated as he thinks himself to be.

I am a Cat is a highly enjoyable read split into digestible chunks littered with excellent humour and social commentary. It also serves as a window to a very interesting period in Japanese history and will make you fall in love with the small, comically mundane world that Natsume creates. I really recommend it to anyone interested in literature, Japan or comedy, and would rate it at five out of five stars, placing it at the top of my favourite books list.