Wellington College English Magazine 2023

Wellington English 2023

Editor’s Foreword

This year’s edition of the English Magazine has been woven together with content produced by pupils over the past couple of years, with a view to creating a resource containing highly academic, excellent quality pieces of work, to aid revision, but also to act as extension beyond the constraints of the curriculum. It is crucial for all students to have a clear idea of what excellence in thought and expression looks like, in a way that is more tangible than the assessment objectives given to guide them. This can go further than exams and coursework: the register and nuanced approach adopted by all critical pieces included are essential tools, which can be used to think about any great text, philosophical enquiry, work of art, historical debate, piece of music or political tension one is exposed to in a lifetime. Writing from other humanities departments has also been integrated, to allow for a broad exploration of academic issues. This is therefore the best of written work from students, creative and critical, covering a wide range of themes and subject matter from all agegroups, designed to both support and inspire readers.

Lucia C

Editor: Lucia C

Designer: Mrs Martin

Supervisor: Mrs Wayman

Should the subject of English Literature be replaced by Global Literatures?

Runner-Up in the Northeastern University London Year 12 Essay Competition

by Amayra S

To discuss replacing a subject we must first distinguish its purpose, why do we - in Eaglestone’s words - “do” English? As early as 1922, Professor George Stuart Gordon, contended that “England is sick and English Literature must save it,” accusing “the churches” of “having failed,” and insisting that the subject must “save our Souls and heal the State.” Gordon suggested that the moral foundations of Literature were, in some capacity, the anchor which prevented people from ‘drifting’ off a moral path. The geographical restriction of “England,” in Gordon’s explanation allows for the ostensibly axiomatic contention that British Literature provided ample material to fulfill this intention. Our social needs and, consequently, our purpose of studying literature, have changed since then. Anchors are and have been a symbol of rootedness but ironically they were invented to enable travel, like literature, they allow for exploration and discoveries which help us evolve as a society. In examining the contemporary purposes of studying literature we can uncover a potential which, by the Cambridge definition of global ,“covers and affects the whole world.” In a transcultural and interconnected reality, facilitated by a medium that is delightfully malleable and capacious, it appears inevitable that the syllabus evolves so as to provide “maps of the mind to supplement and interpret our maps of the globe.” We study literature to understand our world. Writers convey stories that help us give substance to human experiences, for “literature can train, and exercise, our ability to weep for those who are not us or ours.” The English literary canon was limited to advocating the experiences of those who wrote in English and had the means to be published. A diversity in voice allows us to draw veridical conclusions about the times, people and places which we may not be acquainted with. More than this, it embodies a universal experience that has the potential to bind together various cultures and contexts. The past is not limited to anglophone experiences and historical narratives such as those of the Holocaust need to be understood by people universally. Anne Frank’s “The Diary of a Young Girl,” ostensibly the most famous and impactful rendition of the Jewish experience, was originally written in Dutch. Survivor Margot Friedländer immortalized her experience in words, but her autobiography “Versuche, dein Leben du Machen,” like countless others, was written originally in German. We must not efface these voices: without translation their stories would be unavailable to anglophone readers,

and without a place in school and university syllabi, they will be neglected. Literature is personal and emotional, it delineates experiences which shape our understanding of prejudice and transcends our experience of universal obstacles. In throwing an anchor and losing ourselves in a novel we risk the discomfort of an unknown reality but can embrace the satisfaction of a nuanced understanding.

The fear of meaning getting “lost” in translation somewhat jeopardizes the concept of Global Literature being taught. Translation is criticized as deceitful if it is not readily evident that it is derivative but, when overly submissive to the foreign form, condemned “guilty of misfeasance rather than malfeasance” because the original’s organic intention has not been preserved. Whilst this viewpoint outlines translation as a ‘threat’ which dilutes cultural and lexical potency, a second recognises that the roots of “close reading” originate in the exegetical traditions of sacred texts and the philological strategies applied to the Homeric epics or Chinese (Shijing) poetry. Critic Stefan Collini claims that “Anyone seriously engaged with literature … practices close reading,” but in silencing Global Literatures, we are hindering our ability to do so. In schools, the International Baccalaureate requires the study of “works in translation,” to “enrich your appreciation of writers and the context they work in,” focusing on “international mindedness.” Semantic inaccuracies are a small price to pay for accessibility because ultimately, “the translator can be adventurous, but he cannot be an adventurer as the original writer can.” Translation should be appreciated as a ‘maritime zone,’ where language is separated by name and access but its purpose is fluid yet constant.

We study literature to explain our world.

Anchored in our personal realities, we are limited to only a glimpse of a horizon but writing allows us to receive the lessons learned from someone’s experience and transmit messages to those who will, one day, sail our path. Studying English Literature teaches you to articulate your thoughts, a skill which can “combat (the) cliches of our separateness.” As literature transmits “not only myths but countermyths,” just as reality

presents contradictory experiences that challenge your preconceived notions. In explaining our world we are broadening someone else’s, while also combating the threat of an insular cultural echo chamber.

English Literature might be described as ‘enough’ to teach us how to articulate ourselves ‘well,’ despite the ambiguity of evaluating what is ‘wellwritten.’ How can stories about worlds which have no place in your consciousness enhance your ability to communicate your reality? We may look to English Literature, to analyze the way that literary techniques are applied, but “Global Literature” exposes us to content which increases our scope of inspiration. T.S Eliot argues that,“the past should be altered by the present as much as the present is directed by the past,” explaining that poets must be conscious of ideas that have carried through history, learning that “art never improves, but that the material of art is never quite the same.” We must acknowledge traces of European influence on canonical authors who wrote in English: the Grand Tour was not limited to England; Romanticism emerged as a response to the French Revolution. Shakespeare, revered as the greatest writer of all time, is not exempt from the ‘foreign’ and translated ‘influence’ on his sonnets. During the Elizabethan age, “English poets” were said to have “had two guides…the French, [and] the Italian,” allegedly taking “advantage of both.” Currents of thought and artistic movements do not take place in a vacuum.

We read literature to escape our world.

Sontag describes access to Global Literatures as “the passport to enter a larger life.” A way of opening our minds beyond the quotidian structure of our daily lives, to the “times and spaces we have never known.” The sphere of anglophone literature was once limited but the reverberations of colonialism see 67 countries recognize English as their official language, indicating that even when excluding translations, Global Literatures transcend the scope of courses which are currently titled “English Literature.” It appears inevitable that the content taught will cover and portray “the whole world,” thereby allowing us to study global perspectives whilst maintaining a quality of literature

which is retained when studying a text in its original language. Global anglophone literature allows readers to deconstruct and dispel western narratives of ‘the east,’ as well as increase the variety of influences on content which is produced. In a post-colonial world, studying literature that was originally written in English no longer hinders our ability to ‘travel.’

If translated works are being examined in English Literature courses and work which qualifies as “covering or affecting the whole world” is sometimes anglophone, then we might ask ourselves if it is possible to impose these categories. Is it the content or the author’s origin which makes something global? Heart of Darkness is considered part of the English literary canon but its author is Polish-British and the novella is set in the Congo. Irish author Samuel Beckett wrote in French but translated his own work into English, his oeuvre is taught on both English and MFL courses. How and why do we categorize culturally hybrid work, how do we meaningfully distinguish between literature and comparative literature? Studying Global and English Literature should not be mutually exclusive. The idea of ‘replace,’ is one with negative connotations but changing the title of the subject acknowledges the roots of literature already taught and increases the variety of novels which are selected as opposed to altering the subject’s purpose. Ultimately there is an overlap which suggests it might be better to dismantle the two hypernyms and instead embrace the “chance [to] read across…cultural differences.” Fundamentally, we study literature to find our world by untangling thoughts through discussion and interpretation. Literature is, professedly, “the history of human responsiveness to what is alive and what is moribund.” This cannot be constricted by hypernyms. In some capacity, this search for nationalistic identity allows us a fleeting moment of commonality. Thousands of ships have explored the same waters, laying and weighing anchors in turn. They may not have all sailed past each other but they wrote chapters of their lives which unconsciously create an overlap in their individual reality.

Literature is our shared experience. We study literature not only to understand how language shapes meaning but also how meaning shapes the mind and our world. Our study of literature is a reflection of the role of literature “in liberating us from our immediate limitations by anchoring us to a larger reality.”

Salting the Earth

Winner of the H.G. Wells Short Story Competition

by Amelie R (L6)

I am defined by the name “storyteller,” yet perhaps I might be more accurately described as a gardener. Yes, a gardener- equipped with spade and trough in hand, I have hacked and scraped, tossed the topsoil of many stories in my lifetime, but none have been quite as deliciously rich as the plight of one doublebarrelled and singularly miserable family by the name of Huett-Smythe. I have excavated in detail the origins of this oppressively upper middle-class family - mildly inbred, determinedly clinging to the coattails of a dubious aristocratic lineage - however, it is the boy that fascinates me the most. James Huett-Smythe. Messiahboy crucified in my mind for all eternity, he is cloaked in a flesh etched by the surgical hand of a willow tree, forced to weep the aged tears of his father. Yet I betray the endings of this tale far too quickly, and I must return, as all stories do, to the beginning, for my words tumble prematurely from my lips: they immigrate through the frontiers of this story and I must seize them at the borders. Where to begin- a tree spans the limits of pilfered paper, a tree of the family variety. Its gnarled roots are entangled in the soiled beds of history as an ancestral mulch covers the seedling child, while the first winter descends on James’s life.

In those early days, his life could best be summarised in two testaments, New and Old. The pre-mackerel days and the post-mackerel days. In the pre-mackerel days, James was told that he lived in a rural utopia. His mother proclaimed it upon the purchase of their Cotswolds Old Rectory.

“JAMES WE ARE GOING TO BE LIVING IN A RURAL UTOPIA. AREN’T YOU JUST THE LUCKIEST BOY IN THE WORLD?”

James’s mother exclusively spoke at a volume several decibels above everyone else. It was because she was an Honourable, and consequently, even in conversation (especially in conversation), she liked to remind everyone of her superior pedigree and aristocratic status. You could be forgiven for believing that she had swallowed a copy of Debrett’s Peerage at birth, choking down the hefty tome like a boa constrictor consuming an ostrich egg. Georgina Huett-Smyth was a little like an ice sculpture: impressive to look at but oh so cold. Black hair ran inky tendrils down the pale of her lower back, hand-stitching the arc of her lithe figure. She was very skinny- possibly too skinny- and could have

been almost pretty if not for her simply extraordinary overbite.

When James’ father Andrew had met Georgina, the misalignment of her teeth was almost imperceptible, an adorable little quirk. Yet as Georgina strode into middle age, the disparity between her upper and lower jaw had grown quite radically, imitating the long face of her favourite horse. Her top and bottom teeth were no longer twins, or even siblings, but in fact distant cousins at best. This displeased him, for Andrew HuettSmythe was a man who valued appearances above all else: a well-polished shoe, a gleaming kitchen surface, a freshly mown lawn like a ribbon of green... There was something a little obsessive-compulsive in his desire for order. He viewed himself as man’s man - no, not just a man but a gentleman, a real English one. He routinely wore tweed. He shot pheasant and partridge twice weekly. His life was a feeble imitation of Downton Abbey, and his wife was merely a supporting character.

James, however, played a principal role. When his father was at school, during a lesson on religious studies, he learned of a concept called imago dei: the idea that humans are made in the likeness of God.

Andrew was an atheistic man, but he was not without principle. With religious fervour he vowed to mould his son in his own image: a generous self-portrait of his own making. The moulding involved numerous steps. Participation in gentlemanly activity, such as huntin, fishin, shootin. How to play poker - how to administer a cash tip in a handshake- how to wear a tie just-so. Most importantly, Andrew instructed James on the dangers of Wokeness. Neither Andrew nor James were quite sure what Wokeness meant exactly, but they knew that it threatened the existence of the straight white male.

“We are becoming an endangered species, Jamesquite soon we might become extinct.”

James found it funny how his father described himself as white, yet his skin tone was a closer shade to pink. He had once visited a restaurant that owned a lobster tank: a glass cage of sullied purple-blue. Inside of the tank were three dormant lobsters. As he tapped the glass, one pulsating, swollen belly twitched; its rusting claw attempted movement but quickly ceased. Later, the lobster appeared on his mother’s plate, boiled. The flesh of the lobster, having finally succumbed to inevitable death, perfectly matched his father’s own complexion.

Straight pink male, James corrected internally.

The pre-mackerel world was by no means perfect. His mother deployed an air of passive-aggressive martyrdom at all times, whereas his father’s anger was more direct, and usually delivered in the form of a slap to the back of the skull. James was fully aware that his parents did not love each other, and that their living situation resembled two, semi-tolerant roommates inhabiting a convenient flat share. Yet he would have done anything, anything at all, to remain in the premackerel days, suspended in time like pickles in brine.

The Mackerel Incident:

The morning was of the icy, frost-bitten variety; Andrew’s precious lawn glistened with silvery dew. James could remember the exact day: January 1st, New Year’s Day. Georgina, nursing the remnants of a hangover, gnawed on the crusts of her son’s toast. Andrew loved New Years- the enticing wiped slate, the tying of loose ends. He loved clean beginnings and clear-cut endings. But mostly he loved the ceremonious oath made at the start of the year, a pledge for selfimprovement, a promise to strive for perfection.

“Georgina,” he stated calmly, “I have reached a New Year’s resolution.”

She glanced at him and nodded, furiously nibbling on the scrap of bread with her infamous teeth marching in double time.

“I would like a divorce.”

The crust dropped from her hands.

“No.”

Georgina’s character was absent of most virtues; she was not particularly kind, or funny, or intelligent. Yet what she lacked in morality, she made up for in extreme obstinacy.

“No?”

“No.” She repeated.

“Georgina, this isn’t up for debate. I am leaving you, I-II’m moving out.”

“No.”

For the following month, Georgina - despite being noted for her extreme volume - took on an vow of silence with all the unwavering dedication of a monk. Her disproportionate jaw was gummed shut, stuck tight in a paste of bitterness. Her mouth, which previously was in a permanent state of hyperactivity, just... stopped.

Nonetheless, whilst Georgina’s life “stopped,” Andrew’s blazed onwards. For months, James inhabited an upsidedownhouse, of naked walls and stacked cardboard. Estate Agents with plastered smiles and vacant eyes measured the rooms, the years of his life, in square feet. Strangers drifted in and out of the upsidedownhouse, stroking its walls and admiring their reflections in its great sash windows. The house was being sold, and little fragments of James sold along

with it. Nonetheless, the Honourable Georgina watched in a steely-eyed silence as the man who once called himself her husband sloughed the skin of their marriage like a snake. She had furnished her life softly, fringed its edges in curtains and scalloped lace, and she would not relinquish her home, for it was still hers until the papers were signed. A seedling took root in her taut underbellythe suspicion of a scheme, the concoction of a strategy. Mackerel, when baked, has a particular pungency: an aroma so distinctly revolting it is tangible in the air. It hangs, thick and fishy, foreboding like fog, and does not dissipate for days on end. With this knowledge in mind, Georgina enacted her master plan. A feline creature, she lurked in the kitchen, awaiting the arrival of her husband for an imminent house showing. Apron-clad, cheeks apple-flushed with the oven’s heat, she was temporarily a vision of domesticity, and for a moment Andrew’s glasses turned rose pink with nostalgia as he contemplated the death of his marriage and the end of his life’s epoch. Until his radiant wife drew from the oven a tray of baked mackerel that had been bubbling away for 8 hours, an aquamarine up yours. To put it simply, it stunk.

Not usually prone to swearing, a stream of obscenities flooded Andrew’s lips.

“Jesus, Georgina! A couple has driven up from Gloucestershire, from Gloucestershire for God’s sake, for a house viewing and you have transformed our house into-into the bloody Atlantic ocean! Christ that’s a strong smell…”

He started towards the windows in an attempt to reduce the stench but found they were firmly locked: his charming Grade-II listed country home had been hotboxed. The fumigation was well underway, and Andrew began to display all of the symptoms of a tortured wasp. First frenzy: “a state or period of uncontrolled excitement or wild behaviour.” Wildly he clawed at the stagnant air, grasping at the spent fragments of oxygen. Then dormancy: a lethargic, smoke-induced calm. Movements softened; edges blurred. Mackerel, the tempered hallucinogenic, blending pink pustulous rage into pale, diluted his seeping anger until it dissolved into defeat. The final stage, of course, is death but that was never Georgina’s real intention; she only wanted to terrify the prospective buyers into retreat the same way a particularly potent fart can clear a room.

She succeeded.

Wrestling the front door open, Andrew burst into the garden. He touched the grass – quietly – and plucked a tuft out of the ground, extracting the tubular root of a daisy as he did. The delicate vein of the plant marked the flesh of his palm. Consuming the image of the manor house steadily, he stowed away the pre-mackerel days deep into the cavity of his chest, placing them in the brittle part of his heart. Head bent low like a storm-broken flower. Elongated strides. In that still moment he made a French Exit – a wordless,

goodbye-less departure – whilst his boy watched: his nose squashed up against the window, steamy breath swathing the fleeting image of his father in a bleary shadow. The image haemorrhaged into James’s brain as an aneurysm does: he tucked the memory into his back pocket, a bleeding sepia photograph of a bygone life.

I wonder whether James’s life might have been simpler had his father left for good. Despite being party to an age-old cliché, perhaps he might have benefitted from the clarity of a conclusive ending, perhaps then he might have achieved ever-intangible closure. Perhaps he might never have stumbled across the multitude of skeletons lurking in his father’s closet, mildewed and hoarded as mink fur coats. Perhaps he would have been happier allowing his memories of his father to remain in a gilded frame, propping up the image of his dear ol’ dad on a pedestal for ever more. Yet life does not muddle itself in the business of perhaps-maybes-ifsand-buts. Life deals a far crueller hand of cards – the broody ace-of-hearts, the pitiable six-of-spades spayed like some emasculated cat. Wily joker, too. The word Perhaps is a flighty creature, and unfortunately for James it has no place in this story.

Instead, James decided, as many ambitious children do, to run away. His specific destination was his father’s new temporary lodgings in London. The journey from the Cotswolds to the big city is usually one undertaken by jaded businessmen, catching the 8:17 train into Paddington station like sparrows migrating en masse towards a £4.50 oat milk latte and seven hours of sitting in meetings with people they despise. Yet on the morning of March 31st, an incongruous eleven year old was an unlikely participant in this daily exodus. Having amassed the necessary funds for the train journey, James had run as quickly as his short legs could carry him to the station, evading the admittedly unwatchful eye of his mother. The man behind the ticket kiosk handed the tomato-hued boy a ticket, and as James stepped onto platform he breathed a sigh of relief. Soon, he reassured himself, estate agents and mackerel and New Year’s Resolutions and mothers constructed of ice would be consigned to the past. The boy would have benefitted from remembering the old adage – “out of the frying pan and into the fire….”

As the train pulled into Paddington Station, James felt as lost and forlorn as the bear which once bore the same name. Squinting at the tube map, he attempted to navigate the tangled arteries of the district and circle line. Its roots were coloured yellow-green. Like lemon-lime soda. Paddington. Bayswater. Notting Hill Gate. High Street Kensington. Gloucester Road. South Kensington. Stations jutted from the spine of the map as angular vertebrae. A cool silence settled on the boy as he slumped on peach fuzz seats, as sparse in their lining as the lonely hairs on an adolescent upper lip, awaiting the nasal tones of the intercom-

“The next station is Gloucester Road”

James stood up. Quick march. Leftrightleftrightleftrightleftright just like the funny little soldiers on his dad’s TV. Silence is an unusual commodity in London, and yet it was bizarrely quiet as James followed the signs to 57 Courtfield Road, his father’s new residence and, he hoped, his own future home. It was a rather meek-looking, unassuming building: red brick, unlike those ostentatious, stuccofronted Chelsea numbers, with a willow tree out front that partially concealed a large bay window. A hot current of excitement grew in his belly as he glimpsed his father’s profile- an unmistakeable Roman nose, eyes as pale as lighter fluid, and a blushing smile. A smile? Here was a rarity. James watched as the incongruous smile blazed an unfamiliar path across Andrew’s pallid face; another grin matched the happy beam, a mirror’s reflection appearing in the window. A second face- a man’s face- haunted the glass panes in dancing tones of flesh, and without warning the two faces collided as an amalgamation of lips teeth mouth heart. James’s father was kissing another man, and although Andrew had never explicitly condemned same-sex couples in public, James had witnessed his barely concealed disgust when confronted with the sight of a gay couple. Even when the suspicion of homosexuality appeared on his television screen, Andrew would grimace in discomfort, his face addled inexplicably with loathing. Instantly, James understood that he had stumbled upon the very deepest of his father’s secrets whilst catching this moment of stolen intimacy, and as though seized by some hidden power, the boy staggered backwards in an attempt to flee the “scene of the crime.” He was too late. Andrew, having glanced at the window, locked eyes with his son, and time seemed to cruelly elongate as he rushed to the door whilst James remained fixed in place. A number of emotions flickered across Andrew’s face as he waded through time as sticky as treacle: shock, terror, anger. Shame.

A knot of words wedged themselves in James’s throat, yet before he could force out a sentence, Andrew flung open the door and assailed his son with a barrage of incoherent fury. What was he doing there, he demanded, where was his mother, how had he travelled there, how dare he spy on his own father like a nosyfucking-busybody-pervert? Every fibre of James’s body trembled with fright, for he had never seen his father in the grip of such an all-consuming rage. Fear clothed the boy in a stifling silence, and he made no sound but a quiet whimper. Andrew, lashing his son across his knee, picked up a gnarled branch that had been scattered by the willow tree, and, gripping the switch in his right hand, he began to beat James. Streams of blood ran a thready course across James’s back, dripping onto the soil and mingling with the briny tears that salted the earth beneath him. Skin and earth fused as one as James’s razed back provided a gravestone for the demise of his father’s supposedly impenetrable front of masculinity, for both father and son bore witness as the beds of history were slowly soiled and spoiled by a wielded scythe, a willow switch.

The automobile in The Great Gatsby An IB coursework essay

by Annabella P

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s realist novel, The Great Gatsby, set in 1920’s New York, unveils how the surface-level glamour of wealthy individuals is a façade, masking an undercurrent of exploitation and emotional impoverishment. One example of the era’s wealth was the popularity of the automobile. Cars symbolised advancement as they provided the freedom to escape industrial society’s increasing limitations. Cars were a desired object, shown through the increase in vehicle registration from 9 million in 1920 to over 23 million in 1929. This essay will argue that Fitzgerald’s presentation of the automobile is highly significant because it subverts traditional perceptions of cars in the 1920s, presenting them as divisive and destructive. This depiction supports Fitzgerald’s wider goal of providing a counterargument to the prevailing narrative of glorifying opulence. This thesis will be explored by first establishing how cars are initially presented

traditionally, viewed as status symbols. However, the relationship between wealthy characters and their cars is shown to facilitate irresponsibility, suggesting that while cars may be glamorous, the individuals driving them are not. The analysis will then explore the disparity in how characters from different social classes interact with cars, before concluding that Fitzgerald presents the automobile as an agent of destruction due to this combination of recklessness and inequality.

Fitzgerald initially presents cars as symbols of wealth, fulfilling the traditional view of cars at the time. Gatsby’s Rolls-Royce is depicted as extravagant, able to transform into an “omnibus”, highlighting its sheer size. This ‘omnibus’ represents Gatsby’s wealth, enabling mobility as it, “bears parties to and from the city”, allowing the rich to live luxurious lifestyles, travelling to illegal alcohol-fuelled celebrations. The Rolls-Royce has, “a rich cream colour, bright with

Nickel”. The terms ‘rich’ and ‘nickel’ contain a double meaning as they are both financial terms, further suggesting Gatsby’s affluence. Fitzgerald’s depiction of the car further embodies Gatsby’s wealth with the descriptive adjectives, “bright”, “swollen” and “monstrous”, accompanied by auditory imagery of, “a burst of melody on its three noted horn”, presenting Gatsby’s automobile as disturbingly eye-catching, conveying his eagerness to advertise his prosperity. The adjectives ‘monstrous’ and ‘swollen’ suggest an element of obscenity. The reader is initially prompted to admire these cars as the unreliable narrator, Nick, acts as their conduit. Because he feels veneration, stating, “he saw me looking with admiration at his car”, the reader does too. However, Fitzgerald employs a retrospective narrative in the novel. Whilst Nick admits to this initial admiration, perhaps due to the mediocrity of his own car, which he describes as an “old dodge”. In light of the novel’s ending, the reader can interpret these early remarks as a self-judgement of his previous naivety. In summary, Fitzgerald’s presentation of cars early in the novel is significant as it fulfils Nick’s initial instinct that luxurious cars are aspirational.

Contrastingly, as the novel progresses, Fitzgerald presents cars as facilitating careless behaviour. Wealthy characters’ irresponsibility is manifested through drunk driving. One unnamed character, seen exiting his vehicle after a crash, is described as having,

“dismounted from the wreck”, surveying the observers in a “pleasant, puzzled way”. The adjectives ‘pleasant’ and ‘puzzled’ indicate naivety regarding the accident’s severity. This is irresponsible both due to the danger of drunk driving and because alcohol was illegal in Prohibition-era America. Fitzgerald presents such carelessness behind the wheel as implying a pattern of recklessness in the lives of upper-class society. Jordan leaves, “the borrowed car out in the rain with the top down”, highlighting her misuse of the automobile. This carelessness is manifested when she cheats in a golf tournament, moving, “her ball from a bad lie in the semi-final round”. This relationship is summarised by Jacqueline Lance who states, “Jordan Baker operates a car much as she approaches life, unreliably and without emotion”. Lance’s analysis of Baker reflects a wider criticism of the attitudes of the novel’s wealthy characters, such as Tom, who is thoughtless both in life and when driving. His carelessness behind the wheel is shown when he, “ran into a wagon on the Ventura Road one night”. This leads to the exposure of his affair, as he was accompanied by, “one of the chambermaids in the Santa Barbara Hotel” the day after his wedding. Tom’s reckless driving injures the chambermaid whilst harming Daisy through his infidelity, representing the pairing of emotional harm and physical damage in The Great Gatsby. Fitzgerald’s presentation of the automobile exposes the irresponsibility of the wealthy characters when driving and structurally foreshadows the climax of the novel, when imprudent driving leads to Myrtle’s death.

Furthermore, Fitzgerald strikingly contrasts the different social classes’ interactions with cars, exposing automobiles’ divisory qualities. This disparity is shown through the Wilsons’ lack of a working automobile. Wilson’s broken car, “a dust-covered wreck of a ford which crouched in a dim corner”, represents his poverty. The personification of the verb ‘crouched’ alludes to the Wilsons’ lower status, connoting their diminutive social standing and timidity in the presence of wealthier characters. Wilson’s lack of a working car affects his physical and metaphorical immobility, rendering him impotent in his attempts to follow the fast-moving citizens of East and West Egg. This stagnancy is presented as Nick recalls, “I had a glimpse of Mrs Wilson straining at the garage pump”, showing that, while the wealthy are able to travel and experience the luxuries of modern America, Fitzgerald presents the lower class as tied down by menial work. Jacqueline Lance illustrates this inequality in her analysis, describing Wilson as, “an ineffectual man who is trapped underneath the grim reality of his life in the valley of the ashes”. Wilson is ‘ineffectual’ not due to character flaws but rather the fact that his social role renders cars, which would have allowed him to pursue his goals, unattainable. Further, Wilson’s garage is advertised by a sign ironically reading, “repairs G B Wilson, cars bought and sold”. However, Wilson cannot fix his own vehicle, presenting him as a hopeless, pathetic character. Wilson is desperate to gain mobility to escape his miserable life but relies on wealthy characters to do so, saying to Tom, “that’s why I want to get away, that’s why I’ve

been bothering you about that car”. This presents a paradoxical situation as freedom is only provided to those who are already free, not to those requiring it. When Tom does, somewhat facetiously, offer to sell Wilson a car, it is a clearly unaffordable “nice yellow one”. This is not only insulting, but also ironic, as a similar fast car will ultimately kill Myrtle. The use of the automobile is significant because Fitzgerald establishes the lack of mobility experienced both physically and metaphorically by the lower-class characters, uncovering social inequality.

The social elite’s irresponsibility, combined with the inequality the working-class characters experience, has violent consequences, characterised by Fitzgerald’s ultimate depiction of the car as a symbol of destruction. The violence of cars is manifested through Myrtle’s death. Myrtle, gruesomely, is left with her, “left breast swinging like a loose flap”. The visceral simile used by Nick is surprising as he rarely takes a firm stand throughout the novel, emphasising the strength of his reaction. The event’s cruelty is further presented in the line, “her life violently extinguished”. This metaphor likens her life to a light, showing how easy it is to ‘put out’, presenting the ease with which poorer characters are destroyed. Daisy’s disregard for Myrtle’s life is shown when she, “ran over Myrtle like you’d run over a dog”. The simile condenses how the upper-class characters view life as disposable, dehumanising Myrtle. Daisy’s thoughtlessness is highlighted as she “never stopped” to see what happened, instead prioritising self-

Flicker

preservation. The destruction Daisy’s irresponsibility causes is shown when Nick summarises, “and the holocaust was complete”, as Daisy has eradicated the poorer characters through her recklessness. Daisy escapes the repercussions of her actions by “retreating back into [her] money”, while others suffer the consequences. The automobile’s destructive power is most clearly highlighted when it is reduced to, “the death car”, the blunt simplicity contrasting with the previously used flamboyant adjectives. This suggests the car’s most fundamental impact is its capacity for destruction. Fitzgerald’s presentation of the automobile is significant as it presents the violence that results from the interaction between the carelessness of the wealthy and the helplessness of the poor.

In conclusion, Fitzgerald’s depiction of the automobile in The Great Gatsby is highly significant because it subverts the characters’ association of the car with opulence and freedom. While Fitzgerald initially establishes the car as symbolising glamour, the novel unravels this myth. This ultimate rejection of the motor vehicle is crystallised in Nick’s final remark, “So we beat on, boats against the current”. In a novel where the car has been so impactful on the narrative and characters, ferrying the wealthy from place to place, it is significant that the final image reverts back to a less modern form of transport - one characterised not by velocity and danger but by passivity. This suggests that the relentless pace of life that automobiles facilitate is artificial, and unworthy of glorification.

An iGCSE creative writing coursework piece

by Cairis E-Y

Silence. Sweet silence filled the air as three bullets pierced through the morning mist and smoke, rising in a steady stream out of the crematorium. Each recipient’s breath quickened in anxious anticipation; the napes of their necks took the previous roles of their eyes to forewarn the women of their impending agony, but none took notice. All three recipients were almost identical; dressed in dull blue striped unfitted skirts and jackets, a thin kerchief to conceal their exposed heads with minimal hair, and wooden clogs which fitted their feet like an ironic comfort allowing the September chill to creep in. The only distinguishable differences between each woman were their numbers stitched onto the left-hand side of their jackets and the colour of their

triangles, the middle prisoner’s triangle was a deep red, a political prisoner. Her hands tightly wrapped those of the two beside her, her bones protruding beneath the paper-like layer of skin. Her skin, a window into her past, scratched, bruised, cracked, beaten. She screamed. A pained shriek that released a maelstrom of emotions which had been disguised for months; fear, worry, confusion, loneliness, anguish, acceptance, and loyalty. ‘Liberté’, she shrieked.

During that last moment of her word cutting through the air, she was reminded. Reminded of her keen loyalty which had triggered her journey of sacrifice. A loyalty

to not only England but to India – a home she had never lived in. She was reminded of the 16th of June 1943 when her journey as ‘Madeleine’ first began. She had been determined to substantiate herself to all who doubted her and to all who believed in her. On the 16th of June 1943 in the late evening, she jumped from the plane. Silence followed. But then she listened, for if you listen there is always more to hear. The wind softly whistled, giving her consolation even before she needed it. The reassuring whistle contrasted with the declining sputter of engines as the plane flew away. Distantly an owl shrieked.

Her memory flickered. Suddenly she was in the Paris safe house of late June 1943. Huddled in a gloomy room with her radio, transmitting coded messages to England. She sat uneasily, conscious of the German soldiers reveling in the apartment below. Only the stained wooden floor separated her from them: freedom from capture; life from death. In that moment she knew she must stay; she could not succumb to fear – the fear of the Germans. Never had she felt such ethereal power than in that moment, the moment she insisted (to the SOE - Special Operations Executive) on staying in France.

Flicker. Her memory flickered. Flickered to October 1943. Fear. She was crushed by an overwhelming wave of fear. It had arrived from all directions, but she had lost all recollection of its arrival. Fear, akin to darkness. Darkness is what surrounded her. She could see nothing, an emptiness penetrated the room she sat in. Her fingers gently caressed the smooth surface of the chair, she searched for the rope. Exploring all that the chair had to offer, she knew that if she searched too fast, she would miss the rope, miss a chance at escape. Her fingers moved faster as panic began to trickle through her body.

Panic, like the opening of a dam. Her breaths quickened, no longer steady clockwork. Noise erupted in a sudden burst, noise of the familiar rhythm of daily life. The noise stopped.

Footsteps.

Footsteps.

Someone is walking towards her. Their steps echo through the room, alluding to the eerie quality which the room already possessed. Her blindfold is ripped off, an austere light penetrates the depth of her mind. She can see even less than she could before.

Flicker. Flicker.

Her small body hoisted itself up onto the unstable French rooftop lined with unique shingles. Her chest moved up and down in a musical heartbeat, mirroring the taxing escape which she had made. She allows herself a second to breathe in the air, it tastes different up here she thinks. Sweeter, unhindered by walls and... An alarm terminates her thought, a blaring deafening alarm fills the rooftops. An air raid alarm. She begins to sprint across the shingles in a perhaps graceful fashion. The light dances off her, illuminating her elegance. The light is penultimately what led to her capture, the light of German torches spotlighting her location. Flicker. Her memory flickers as time mockingly changed its location.

Darkness surrounded her yet again. But this time the darkness was not alone, the darkness came with loneliness. She was alone. For months she had been alone. First, loneliness drove her insane, she fought it. Constantly. She would scream, she would beg, she would curse. Her voice used to crack under the sheer pain of being alone, always alone. Second, she eased her pain by becoming another, a friend to herself. She would murmur in a muffled tone, creating a plan for her future life. A life she was hopeful she would lead. Third was acceptance, the stage she found herself in now. She sat lifeless, her mind an empty cavern and her body a rejected doll. She waited for the day that something would happen, anything.

Flicker. Flicker. 1944.

She caught a glimpse of the gate. A huge gate filled with strong iron bars, in the middle it read ‘Arbeit macht frei’, meaning ‘Work sets you free’. Ironic she thought, for she had never felt more captive than in that moment. She entered through the gate into Dachau.

Flicker. Shudder. The sardonic nature of time catapults her back to the reality of 1944.

The crisp morning air filled her throat as she breathed in, she no longer paid attention to the mist and smoke which rose out of the crematorium. Her whole body shook. She took her last breath. The bullet ricocheted toward her, fleetingly one might see a brief smile as she is released from life, from the pain of living. Her body collapsed, crumpling instantaneously. All one could see was the warm blood reclaiming the sombre stripes of Noor Inayat Khan’s clothing as life left her.

Unusual events in Two Trees and Giuseppe

An A-Level essay

by Bella G

In ‘Two Trees’ by Don Patterson and Roderick Ford’s ‘Giuseppe’, mythical events serve as a catalyst for an exploration of human cruelty and suffering. A mode of magical realism is adopted to illustrate transgression in the face of what is ethereal and enchanting. In Giuseppe, the Second World War sets the backdrop for the butchering of a beautiful captive mermaid; her body is then severed and fed to hungry troops. Ford thus elucidates the atrocities that men commit in times of intense desperation. He interrogates human morality under hardship and provokes questions of collective culpability. In stark contrast to Ford, Patterson sets her poem in a tropical village. Within this village, a “magic tree” is created through the fusion of a lemon and orange tree. The poem concludes with the tree split down the seam in a motiveless act of malice. Patterson then, is concerned with a more general sense of human cruelty, which arises not out of suffering, but a sadistic urge to destroy.

In terms of form, both ‘Two Trees’ and ‘Giuseppe’ possess a distinct fable-like quality. Patterson’s opening line, “One morning, Don Miguel got out of bed with one idea rooted in his head:” is reminiscent of the beginning of a fairy-tale, in which Miguel becomes the legendary protagonist. The melodic effect of the rhyming couplet is appealing to the ear; it creates an illusion of a simplicity that Patterson dismantles. Patterson varies the traditional sonnet form through her use of rhyming couplets throughout the poem. This decision perhaps reflects the sense of union between the trees which permeates the entire work. In addition, the phrase, “rooted” foreshadows the subject matter of the poem and symbolically connects the intangible with what the tangible, what is “rooted” in reality. Moreover, form plays an important role in building the element of magical realism in ‘Giuseppe’. The first lines, “My Uncle Giuseppe told me that in Sicily in World War Two”, has the tone of a story. The personal pronoun

“my” and the phrase “told me” establish a sense of authenticity which is strengthen by the specificity of location which follows, “in the courtyard behind the aquarium, where the bougainvillea grows so well,”. The preposition, “behind” hints at something that is secret, even transgressive, and a confessional quality is adopted. The graveness of tone, however, is mitigated by a juxtaposing image, “the bougainvillea”, whose beauty is vivid in colour. This conflict, between fantasy and reality, the innocent and cynical, is at the heart of the form in both poems.

Furthermore, both poems centre around an object which is inherently fantastical. In ‘Two Trees’ this is the “magic tree” which bears both lemons and oranges. A metaphor depicts the sprouting of the fruit against the shadowy foliage, “two lights in the dark leaves”. The “lights”, aside from illustrating an enchanting beauty, allude to the inspiration that overcame Miguel to bind the trees; his idea has been fruitful in terms of physical and poetic creation. As the years pass the tree’s limbs become, “so tangled up”, which can be seen as a commentary on the complexity of human relationships. Miguel’s tree becomes famous in his village, “and not one kid in the village didn’t know the magic tree in Miguel’s patio”. The emphasis on children knowing about the tree is in keeping with the fairy tale narrative and genre of magic realism. A sense of child-like wonder in the face of this “magic” is implied. Hence the tree is comparable to Ford’s mermaid, “the only captive mermaid in the world”. from whom the men take, “a ripe golden roe”. Mermaids, despite being a creature of myth, are a symbol of femininity. Hence Ford blurs the boundary between the mythical and human in Giuseppe. In doing so, he adds a layer of depth to the moral transgression committed by the men; their actions are viewed as murder. The men also take, “a ripe golden roe from her side”. In a poem with comparably little figurative language, this metaphor is poignant and emotive. The adjective “golden” evokes an object that is precious and sublime. The image of the “roe” alludes to an unborn child, its “taking” can be seen in human terms as a forced abortion. So, Ford veils a human concept, and in this case one that is violent and immoral, with a mysterious, ethereal beauty. This shared focus on the fantastical in the poems heightens the tragedy of the transgression man will commit.

Despite both poems detailing the destruction of the magic creature, they explore different motivations behind the act of violence. In Giuseppe, a group is responsible, “a doctor, a fishmonger,” a “priest”. The “doctor” and the “fishmonger” indicate a confusion surrounding the hybrid identity of the mermaid. The “priest” is a figure of morality and religious authority. Ford therefore elucidates a breaching of both the Hippocratic oath and God’s commandments. Furthermore, his interrogation of the notion of collective culpability is relevant to the WW2 backdrop, in which

the suffering of millions occurred due to a compliancy of the German population. Although the men try to justify their actions through dehumanising terms that recall Nazi methods, “she was simple”, they cannot rid themselves of guilt. The corporal semantic field that follows the mermaid’s death is a silent admission of her humanity, “her throat”, “her head”, “her hands”, and there takes place a burial, a human ritual. “The rest they cooked and fed to the troops”, elicits a sense of unease in the reader as the troops become unknowingly implicated in murder. The phrase “The rest” is a euphemism; it illustrates a reluctance to detail the severing of the body. The poem ends emphatically with an appeal to God, perhaps reminding the reader that despite Giuseppe’s claim that, “Starvation forgives men many things”, a force greater than man will have the final moral judgement. Therefore, Ford is concerned with the question of collective culpability. The story-like narrative, the confidential tone, implicate not just the men, but the reader themselves. We must now bear the burden of the secret we have been told, and in doing so become complicit in the men’s act of violence.

By contrast, the felling of Patterson’s “magic tree” is the work of an individual. Interestingly, unlike Miguel, he is not named and is referred to only in very general terms, “man”. Perhaps “Man” refers not to a specific person but to the universal, to humankind. In this sense, Patterson explores the “malicious whim” that overcomes people with “no dream”. The style of magical realism casts this man as the villain, a dark, shadowy figure who destroys Miguel’s fruitful creation without cause. The tree is at the mercy of the man’s “axe” and plays a similarly passive role to the mermaid in Giuseppe. Yet whilst the tone in Ford’s poem is poignant and graphic, “she screamed like a woman in terrible pain”, it becomes removed, even didactic at the end of ‘Two Trees’. The repetition of negatives, “And no,” including the anaphora of, “nor” highlight a sense of disbelief at the tree’s resilience. They do not, “die from solitude”, “bear a sterile fruit”, or “weep”. The personification of the tree suggests that Patterson is demonstrating a human resilience in the face of evil. Unlike Giuseppe’s ending, the final rhyming couplet is dismissive, imbued with a heavy sense of irony “And trees are all this poem is about”. Therefore, Patterson simultaneously elucidates man’s capacity to create and destroy. She illustrates a duality inherent in humanity and ultimately demonstrates a resilience in the face of evil.

In conclusion, both Patterson and Ford utilise a fablelike form and fantastical subject matter as a platform for an exploration of human cruelty. Ford’s ‘Giuseppe’ must be seen in its WW2 context; the men’s act of cruelty may be in response to a heightened sense of desperation and fear. On the other hand, Patterson chooses a tropical backdrop which does not taint her rigorous examination of the dual nature of humankind.

Is it right to call Classical literature “timeless”?

by Lucia C Fitzwilliam College Cambridge Classics

Essay Competition entry

When considering the ‘timeless’ nature of Classical literature, the assumption that literature from antiquity is a certain entity in isolation, easily defined, with clear temporal, geographic, and thematic boundaries, is an inherently problematic one. First, the texts that could be considered as ‘Classical’ were written over many centuries: while Aeschylus published his first play in 472 BC, Ovid wrote the Fasti in 17 AD. Defending them as a collective is therefore challenging. There is then the issue of geographic centring – does ‘Classical literature’ stretch to works published in Ancient Egypt, or works published within the confines of the Roman empire, but by authors who themselves were not Roman? Lastly, there is huge thematic variation within the texts united under one name. Different stances on politics, love, life, death, religion, and honour shine out, and it is consequently difficult to consider them as a whole. Therefore, for the purposes of this essay, I will be using the more canonical works to explore my argument and be residing solely in the bounds of Greek and Roman works, but want to recognise from the outset that this can be limiting and/or reductive to the capacious nature of ancient literature.

Having set the parameters in this way, I intend to explore the relevance of Classical literature within modern society, and secondly the legacy that it has left upon the shape of Western literature, using in this endeavour Greek tragedy in greater detail than other forms to illustrate my argument more exactly. This will be followed by a consideration of how the historical context of these works is fundamental to our understanding of their core, which may undermine their eternal nature. Lastly, I will explore some problematic disjunctions between Classical literature and the modern reader, which can prove uncomfortable for a 21st-century audience, and the ways in which we can overcome this through the method of translation. Ultimately however, it is right to call Classical literature timeless. All art functions as a type of anthropological guidebook, teaching one how to live, how to examine life, to approach death and discomfort, hate and love, familial discord, familial harmony, duty, money, and time. Literature from antiquity is no different and presents these issues in ways that allow a modern audience to grasp a deeper sense of themselves, as well as shape an understanding of those who lived before. In addition, if one labels the study of Classical literature as antiquated, or the works in themselves as from an era so removed from our own that they have ceased to remain relevant, it has serious implications for the study of any work of art that has come since. By failing to consider Classical literature in our study of all that has followed, one loses any understanding of what

comparatively recent writers echo either deliberately or through exposure.

An exploration of these themes is not complete without clarifying what we consider “timeless” to mean. There is no human work that is truly timeless in a literal sense: we will die, the earth will be absorbed by the sun – no manuscripts will remain. Even Virgil will struggle to overcome this. At the same time, the fact that this question is being posed in the first place exemplifies a timeless quality to Classical literature in its own right, that it is deserving of such careful scrutiny after so many centuries and more recent works of art. And so, I will equate this timeless quality to meaning worthy of reading, studying, and celebrating in our present day, with themes of resounding value to an extent that they are still pertinent to humanity today, as well as one’s ability to engage with the texts as a modern reader.

Of all the tragedies, perhaps none is so relevant to society today as Sophocles’ Antigone. Able to be read very much as a political play, Sophocles explores the tension between ethical duty and legal obligations, and the fatal consequences when these two largely benign constructs collide. It is this interrogation of the power of the individual in the face of corruption or immorality on a systematic level that renders Antigone such a powerful tool in issues of conflict and oppression today, with many famous performances of it noted throughout modern history. Within the current climate of conflict between Russia and Ukraine, it again is performed widely, with greater political parallels able to be drawn between Creon and Putin, as A.N. Wilson notes in his recent article on how Antigone ‘speaks to Ukraine’: “Creon, like Putin, was blind to one advantage of democracy: namely, it allows leaders to be warned against their own folly.” This agency Antigone has acquired is reminiscent of what Wilde once articulated so well: “great works of art are living things, are, in fact, the only things that live.” This living thing that Antigone has become has a wider power on the human spirit in the face of adversity – it consoles, it soothes, it instructs.

The notion of intertextuality is fundamental in a question of the timeless nature of any swathe of literature. In Death of the Author, Roland Barthes writes that “All literature is itself this special voice, consisting of several indiscernible voices, and that literature is precisely the invention of this voice, to which we cannot assign a specific origin – literature is that neuter, that composite, that oblique into which every subject escapes: the trap where all identity is lost.”

When reflecting on this, one must consider the ‘several indiscernible voices’ which make up this ‘special voice

of literature’, many of which come from the ancient world. In this way, the Classical literature we study has become dissolved into the very essence of the more recent works. These texts are so seminal they have been interwoven with everything since, which not only renders them timeless, but critical to further study, as they allow one to develop a deeper understanding of those texts influenced by them.

The Greek tragedy is one of the most persistent forms within literary history, with not only the works of the tragedians being performed to this day, but continually influencing modern drama. The legacy of the intricacies of its anatomy, cemented in Aristotle’s Poetics, lives within the heart of our theatres. Visible in the success of the recent production of Williams’ Streetcar Named Desire, the recurrent tropes within soap operas around the world, and all of Shakespeare’s 12 tragedies, the ability of the Greek tradition to look human misery directly in the face more unflinchingly than other art forms renders it immortal, whether through productions of the tragedians themselves or through its influence on what came fter.

It is the rich ambiguity at the heart of tragedy that contributes strongly to its value. As W. Wimsatt and M. Beardsley spoke to in their paper The Intentional Fallacy, our fascination with the form stems in part from its “constitutively ambiguous nature”, “woven with words that have double meanings, each character understanding them unilaterally.” The binary oppositions that lie at the level of the language employed exist within the tensions in the plot as well, as exemplified by Antigone above, both of which ultimately highlight the complexity with which life unfurls. This fascination with the ambiguous persists throughout literature, most neatly defined by Keats in his idea of ‘negative capability” in 1817, as he wrote on this thing “which Shakespeare possessed so enormously,” to accept “uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason”. This, undoubtedly, is pulled from the Greek tradition, and so we see again how Greek tragedy has been immortalised by modern reception: not only is its form echoed in every stage production around the world, but its fixations are pertinent over 2000 years later, troubling our nation’s greatest poets, and exemplified in current publications.

There is a direct case at this point to be made by the nature of Shakespeare. Harold Bloom persuasively argues that Shakespeare manufactured the Invention of the Human, noting that “his plays remain the outward limit of human achievement: aesthetically, cognitively, in certain ways morally, even spiritually. They abide

beyond the end of the mind’s reach; we cannot catch up to them”. Stephanie McCarter, in her recently published translation of the Metamorphoses, writes in the preface of the value of Ovid being exemplified in the presence of his work within that of the Bard: “What would Shakespeare be, for instance, without the tale of Pyramus and Thisbe, the inspiration for Romeo and Juliet?” Following from this, if Shakespeare ‘invented the modern human’, and yet is so heavily pervaded with the works of those before him, preserving the myths and tragedies in his retelling, the study of Classical literature is not only fundamental to how we view our literary history, it is crucial to our understanding of ourselves, and is encased in our very existence.

On the other hand, there is a sense in which the historical context of texts from antiquity is so critical to a deep understanding of a narrative, and so removed from our own time, that it renders Classical literature anachronistic. A knowledge of the nuanced societal and political inspirations and implications of an ancient work is so inaccessible to a casual reader that if one reads it without a guide or further study, many strains of the text are lost. Not only does one not truly grasp the comment the author is curating on their own time, but a layer of these ‘persistent truths’ dissolves as well. Therefore, Classical literature is indeed timeless, and can yield a level of constructive reflection on the human experience when studied in isolation, but, when considered alongside its contemporaries and historical foundation, is more powerful in promoting its core messages. This can be illustrated by various readings of Aeneid IV. If one reads it in isolation, a fairly singular narrative can emerge. The story, one thinks, explores the ravaging effect of love on one’s sense of self and sanity, and the dissonance between obligation and the ability to follow one’s desires. Both aspects remain as significant within recent literature and modern life as they were at Virgil’s time of writing. However, it is reductive to think of Aeneas’ and Dido’s arc without considering its parallel with the recent affair of Cleopatra and Mark Antony, given that this scandal which had toppled Rome was ingrained in the psyche of Roman authors at that time. That Aeneas ultimately resisted this temptation of Dido and dutifully continued as naturally expected of ‘pious Aeneas’ is crucial within the historical context of the work. Higher standards of behaviour were demanded with the peace that Augustus brought after the fall of Antony at Actium, and it is critical here that Dido is an African queen, whose love for a hero may significantly divert the course of history. Through the ringing endorsement given by Virgil to Aeneas’ maintenance of self-control, a clear message against succumbing to fleeting love for the sake of national progression and performance is evident. The idea of temperantia (self-control) defining itself in direct opposition to amor (erotic/romantic love) within Augustan Rome is again significant, and within this narrative one can read Aeneas as the manifestation of the former, and Dido the latter. Without a grasp on what Virgil could be looking to achieve however, the conflict between desire and restraint, still so apposite today, may not emerge, and

so the necessity to contemplate a historical relevance becomes apparent.

Something also worthy of addressing is how much of Classical literature has become problematic to the modern reader, with ‘unbridgeable’ gaps between antiquity and modernity evident in many of the canonical works, particularly in a new age marked by its efforts in social justice. A potent example of this is the persistent presence of sexual violence within Ovid’s work. “A woman reading Ovid faces difficulties”, writes Amy Richlin in her paper on Reading Ovid’s Rapes While she powerfully illustrates the emotive nature of Ovid’s depictions of rape and sexual aggression, perhaps most hauntingly in the story of Philomela and Tereus, Richlin concludes that we must overcome the desire to shy away from these problematic aspects of our literary history. In her answer, she turns to Toni Morrison, who notes that “We’re stuck with Philomela, she’s like Beloved, the dearly beloved ghost of grief, and to be blind to her is not to exorcise her. We need to know her and keep faith with history”. Instead of sanitising these works, or cutting them from our studies entirely, rendering Classical literature obsolete, “we can fight in this battle”, and 30 years after Richlin makes this argument, Stephanie McCarter does just this as the first female translator of the Metamorphoses into English in 60 years. The power of modern translation is something vital to Classical literature retaining its relevance, and McCarter remarks on this, having discussed her desire to “add no adjectives that are not present in Ovid’s Latin”, in contrast to past translations which have “sexualised” victims of rape within the epic “into something of a coquette”, stating that “if we do not rethink these texts through the lens of the present, they will cease to have any meaning for the present”. Though McCarter notes that “the Metamorphoses is the product of a patriarchal culture whose sexual politics we would do well not to emulate”, it “holds up a spectacularly kaleidoscopic lens to the modern world, one that helps us reflect… on our own capacity for change.” Therefore, these difficult aspects of texts do pose a threat to the relevance of ancient works, but this can be overcome by a more exact method of translation, which does not attempt to romanticise the transgressions depicted, and through a wider body of specialists involved in the process.

It is indeed right to call Classical literature timeless. With a range of styles encompassed under the one term, it contains complexities which are not only still pertinent to the modern world, but can also go some way to assuage suffering and allow for introspection on a global scale. In addition, ancient literature has been preserved by the works which follow, and thus are within the very fabric of ourselves and our society. I close with Sappho, writing 2600 years ago: “I declare That later on, Even in an age unlike our own, Someone will remember who we are”. Not only do we remember, celebrate who they (Classical authors) are - they are within us, making up a fragment of our own existence. To relinquish their hold is to forget a piece of ourselves.

Aesthetic views in Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest

An A-Level essay

by Rufus S

Aestheticism was a social and artistic movement that permeated Victorian culture in the late nineteenth century, campaigning for the prioritisation of the sensory beauty of an artistic item over its moral or political sentiment. Oscar Wilde is considered a pioneer of this philosophy’s literary facility, being caricatured by Punch Magazine as ‘Æsthete of Æsthetes’ in 1881. So it is not surprising that his most renowned play, written deep into this period (1894), The Importance of Being Earnest, features the theme of aesthetic views. Wilde does not simply nod to aestheticism in this play, rather he indulges in it with the concept being incredibly pervasive throughout the play’s thematic landscape, characterisation, and character interactions. However, somewhat ironically, this presentation of aestheticism is, in itself, purely aesthetic. For Wilde does not, as one might expect, explicitly champion and praise aestheticism in The Importance of Being Earnest, nor does he argue against it. Instead, he simply includes it prevalently, applying no judgement to the notion, which, of course, reflects the very nature of the theory. Conceivably, the one reading that could extrapolate some larger implication from Wilde’s presentation of aesthetic views in this play is the notion that from the sheer volume of references to aestheticism in The Importance of Being Earnest, Wilde is, without judgement, commenting on how hugely relevant and integral to late nineteenth century England aesthetic views were. Yet perhaps this is an interpretation that would trouble Wilde as it is arguably inaesthetic itself. In any case, one character in The Importance of Being Earnest who is arguably the ultimate personification of aesthetic views is Algernon. Wilde informs us of this through stagecraft before Algy even speaks in the play, with the opening lines of stage direction reading, ‘Morning-room in Algernon’s flat in Half-Moon Street. The room is luxuriously and artistically furnished.’ The image of Algy’s flat being ‘luxuriously and artistically

furnished’ is, of course, immediately referential to aesthetic values, however this reference is more nuanced than its base meaning. The aestheticism in this description is exacerbated by Wilde deliberately giving no specific detail on the room’s decoration. All that is given to Wilde’s reader or audience is that the room is intensely visually appealing: the particulars of what items constitute this beauty, or their meanings are disregarded, as they are unimportant to the aesthetic and unimportant to Algernon. However, what is possibly the most aesthetic about Algy’s character in The Importance of Being Earnest is his almost complete lack of concrete motivation behind his actions and his deliberate neglect of any kind of moral conviction or sense of duty. In all of his dealings with other characters throughout the play, Algernon seems to act only in the interests of living enjoyably and beautifully, with him confidently saying to Cecily, having only met her a few moments earlier, ‘I love you Cecily. You will marry me won’t you?’ While this line is, of course, comically preposterous, what is most aesthetic about it is Algy’s hugely presumptive expectation that Cecily will return his affection. This is because he does not necessarily care if Cecily does share his feelings, he is simply caught up in the romance of conceptual love and marriage: a very aesthetic notion. Algy’ aesthetic rejection of duty and morality is also crucial to Wilde’s characterisation of him in the play and is exemplified again by Wilde’s stagecraft when he directs, ‘Lane presents several letters on a salver to Algernon. It is to be surmised that they are bills, as Algernon, after looking at the envelopes, tears them up.’

The aestheticism of Algy’s casual amorality and inclination to live with beauty as a priority is intensified when we interrogate his character in relation to other contextual literary figures contemporaneous to him with similar dispositions. Algy, like Wilde himself, would very well have been considered a ‘dandy’ by Victorian

audiences due to his affinity for physical beauty. Wilde wrote many characters that would have been considered as participating in dandyism, however what separates Algernon, and makes his characterisation even more aesthetic than ‘the dandy’ already is, is his reckless amorality. Let us consider two ‘dandies’ from Wilde’s other works: Lord Goring from An Ideal Husband and Lord Darlington from Lady Windermere’s Fan. Lord Goring is the protagonist of An Ideal Husband and is intensely flamboyant and self-indulgent, however he is ultimately deeply good and moral, using his razor wit to make moralized social critique deliberately.

Lord Darlington on the other hand, while playful and superficial, is distinctly immoral, and has a villainous role in the play. The fact that in these characters, and many more of Wilde’s, ‘dandyism’ is markedly morally weighted, whether that is positively or negatively, exacerbates Algernon’s aesthetic status, as although his is distinctly a ‘dandy’, he is also distinctly amoral, neither good nor bad. This perhaps makes him the ‘dandiest’ of all of Wilde’s dandies, in that Algy’s aestheticism is so great it removes any moral polarity from him, making him purely superficial.

Another element of aestheticism Wilde presents in The Importance of Being Earnest is the concept of things being ‘fashionable’. Ideas about what is culturally perceived as beautiful are essentially aesthetic as they disregard personal preference and simply place value in general societal opinion. Fascination with what is ‘in style’ is inescapable in The Importance of Being Earnest and perhaps an aesthetic, non-judgmental, commentary can be gleaned from this: fascination with what is ‘in style’ is inescapable in Victorian society too. In this play, almost all the characters make some reference to ‘fashion’, yet little do more than Lady Bracknell who seems largely focussed on the subject. She, for example, after Jack has told her that he lives in 149 Belgrave Square says, ‘(shaking her head). The unfashionable side.

I thought there was something. However, that could easily be altered.’ The utterly trivial nature of ideas about what is ‘fashionable’ is also highlighted in these lines by Lady Bracknell’s assured claim that ‘that could easily be altered.’ This phrase, apart from its general humour, elucidates how mutable and fickle concepts of ‘fashion’ are and this is sustained subsequently in the conversation when Jack asks if Lady Bracknell was referring to ‘the fashion or the side’ and Bracknell replies, ‘Both, if necessary.’ This is indicative of the aesthetic nature of what is considered as ‘in style’, and by definition, the aesthetic nature of The Importance of Being Earnest’s characters as it demonstrates that ‘fashion’, to Wilde’s characters in this play, is entirely trivial and has no genuine motivation or sentiment as it can be so easily changed or moved. However, this commentary on aestheticism does still remain aesthetic in itself, in that it does not pass any concrete judgement on this frivolity and furthermore it would be erroneous to read frivolity as a condemnation by Wilde in itself, as he, a true aesthetic, appreciated the frivolous and trivial, even subtitling The Importance of Being Earnest ‘A trivial play for serious people’.

Finally, Wilde, perhaps metaphorically, presents aesthetic views potently in The Importance of Being Earnest through his character’s fascination with names and their power in a romantic sense. Obviously, names and identities play a significant thematic role throughout the play, however the manner in which they are utilised symmetrically in the two proposal scenes is distinctly aesthetic. Both the female participants in the proposal scenes place a deliberately comical level of importance on the shared and (unknown to the girls) fictitious name of the men they get engaged to, Ernest: the literal ‘importance of being Ernest’. When Jack suggests his own name as being ‘charming’ as a result of being concerned by Gwendolen’s fixation on Ernest as a name, Gwendolen declares ‘Jack is a notorious domesticity for John! And I pity any woman who is married to a man called John.’ In a parallel nature, before Algernon even similarly proposes his own name (which is met with Cecily saying that if he were called Algernon, she could not remain faithful to him), Cecily says ‘I pity any poor married women whose husband is not called Ernest’. These largely outlandish

feelings, while they of course are largely for audience amusement, also exemplify and expose the intrinsic fallacy of aesthetic views. These stances adopted by Cecily and Gwendolen are entirely superficial, disregarding the personal value usually considered in the process of accepting a marriage proposal, and they therefore fully characterise aestheticism as they prioritise, in this case, verbal beauty, over personal value.

So in conclusion, The Importance of Being Earnest, through its characters, their actions, and in a more general sense, operates around a fulcrum of aestheticism. However, the concept of how the play presents aesthetic views becomes difficult precisely due to the play’s aestheticism, for by the very nature of aestheticism, finding a definitive argument is challenging. The play is dichotomous in this sense, and arguably, the more serious literary criticism conducted around the theme, the less the presentation of the theme can be deciphered. A more tangible reading can be found when one is cognisant of the trap many critiques of The Importance of Being Earnest can fall into: neglecting the play’s frivolous nature. For as previously mentioned, Wilde himself described this play as a ‘trivial play for serious people’ - the play is light and comedic and should be read as such. When one bears this in mind, arguably the most substantial reading of how the play presents aestheticism can be unearthed: The Importance of Being Earnest presents aesthetic views entirely aesthetically. This interpretation may seem trivial and frivolous in itself, but it is rightly so. Throughout The Importance of Being Earnest, aestheticism is a central motivation to so many motifs and characters, yet without any categorical judgement or power, unlike perhaps the theme of Victorian ideas about religion, which is not painted in a particularly positive light. Feasibly, all of the themes contained in The Importance of Being Earnest are presented aesthetically, it is a ‘trivial play’ after all, yet Wilde’s pronounced indifference to the theme of aestheticism resoundingly presents the theme of aesthetic views in the play in an aesthetic manner.

The moral significance of railroads in Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina

An IB essay

by Maisie W

As Tolstoy wrote in 1867, ‘man’s every action is inevitably conditioned by what surrounds him and by his own body’. One can view the metaphor of the railroad in Anna Karenina as an echo of such ideals, emphasising humankind’s relation to the material world through its operative function as a symbol of the social collective. Under the common understanding of its social embolism, interpretations have ranged from a critique of modernisation to a commentary on the construction of morality within mid-19th century Russia. Perhaps the most significant function of the railroad is its representation of Anna’s internal struggle between her innate desires and the moral judgement of the collective. Arguably, it’s through the multivalence of the metaphor, that Tolstoy affirms the extent to which human thought and emotion is manifested through the objects of our construction. This essay will seek to assess the significance of the railroad in Anna Karenina with specific focus on its capacity to explicate the novel to an emotional and moral degree.

Anna’s night train to St Petersburg is particularly relevant to the novel as it dramatizes an internal struggle in which ‘innate passion attempts to permeate the barrier of conscious and will’. Firstly, Tolstoy employs meteorological and kinetic imagery to personify the train as an ‘agent of the extinction of the individual’. He carefully curates the internal environment of the train to be that of the utmost luxury, juxtaposing it against the storm outside to emphasise the comforts one gains when in active compliance with the social collective. Within this environment, however, a fabricated notion

of security is explored through Anna’s remark that the carriage was “very hot’’. This demonstrates how despite the carriage being depicted as the epitome of safety and comfort, its amenities ultimately elicit a suffering akin to that of suffocation. The quote grapples with the coalescing forces of this constricting sanctitude as it attempts to delineate the debilitating disjuncture between pursuing either communal or individual identity. Furthermore, the image of heat is revisited when the heat of the compartment is used to compliment the ‘erotic heat’ Anna experiences when thinking about Count Vronsky. When recounting her interactions with Vronsky at the ball, the quote “warm, very warm, hot!’’, parallels the physical temperature as Tolstoy alludes that the warmth of the train, and thus the boundaries of the collective, are prompting Anna approach a realisation that she is beginning to breach the social constraints with which she has so long been complicit. Here, Tolstoy reaffirms the inextricable connection between the internal and external worlds, his subtle obscuration of the boundaries between the subjective and objective, the ‘physiological and the psychological’, reminds the reader of the role our exterior surroundings play in explaining the subtleties of inner conflicts. One can argue that over the course of the train ride, Tolstoy metamorphizes the role of the penknife to not only function as a paper cutter but to also serve as a ‘figurative embodiment’ of Anna’s desires to enter a new romance herself. The penknife Anna uses to open her English romance novel is described as an object that she is continuously toying

with in her lap, which conjures the image of Anna quite literally contemplating the idea of leaving the social collective. As she possesses the means to abandon social conformities in her lap, (the knifes representation of her growing emotions towards Vronsky), her brewing desire to pursue individual passion is divulged by the physical and mental discomforts she experiences on the journey.

Additionally, the phrase ‘she pressed its cold surface against her cheek and was...suddenly overcome with unreasoning joy’, symbolises the moment at which the object of her passion, the consequence of such passion, and an embracement of it, transcend the subconscious to amalgamate at the forefront of Anna’s mind. Through the temperature binary between the knife and Anna’s cheek, Tolstoy emphasises this abrupt moment of clarity as he positions Anna in front of the ultimate choice between the self and the collective. Summarily, Anna’s night train to St Petersburg is perhaps the novel’s most extended metaphor of the conflict between the individual and communal identity, with both heat and weather used to dissect the asphyxiating nature of society in comparison to the dangerous vulnerability that derives from a pursuit of individual desires. Anna ultimately chose to embody her singular identity, however the fact that she was killed by the train, signifies how communal identity can never fully be escaped. This therefore suggests how a fusion of both collective and self-identity is optimal for survival, but as Anna demonstrates, to perform one is to deny the other which ultimately results in her leaving both through her suicide.

The metaphor of the railroad can be seen to not only provide a physical link between Tolstoy’s characters, but also a nexus between the various thematic divisions of the novel. Arguably, it is through such thematic unification, that one can begin to understand the metaphors representation of Russian society, and by extension the meaning of social existence. The railroad’s affiliations with children are particularly striking, as they appear to highlight a linear path through which childhood innocence is lost at the hands of the social. The first instance of the children playing a railway game appears before the main events of the novel, contrasting the second image which depicts Seryozha playing with his train set after the moral disgrace Anna inflicted upon her family. These two contrasting images, therefore, suggest that through the ‘game’ of the railroad, children are familiarised with the restrictions of the social. As they grow up, they eventually leave the carefree, self-centred attitudes intrinsic to the ‘child identity’ as they begin to interact more with social pressures and expectations. Anna, who sought to be spontaneous and true to the ‘natural force’ that is individual identity, was ultimately crushed by her refusal to abandon this uncorrupted form of existence and subject herself to her pre-determined social role. The railway, therefore, symbolises an inevitable part of life, a point at which personal transformation becomes externalised, and individuality threatens to become a self-damaging force. Arguably, the train in

this context embodies life itself, demonstrating how survival is guaranteed through an acquiescence of the social, which alludes to the idea that Anna had already metaphorically died the moment she stepped off the St Petersburg train, rendering both time and the physical body somewhat meaningless when in contact with overwhelming social forces. Summarily, the railroad metaphor has the ability to support the plethora of interpretations it has inspired, however where these particular analyses differ, is the idea of the railroad as a symbol of the ‘requirements and privileges’ of the social with regards to a thematic evaluation of the conflict between individual impulses and those manifested by the social collective.

The foundation of both the railway system and the metaphor is the train tracks. The tracks assume the role of society, with its rules and orderliness being reflected through the geometric configuration of the steel framework. This consequentially depicts Anna as being both literally and symbolically crushed by social architectonics, however, is it fair to assume Anna was completely blameless in her demise? Arguably, the role she played in her death extended beyond the physical act of suicide, for by being such an active member of society for so long, she contributed to supporting the structure that would end up facilitating her death. After spending her life reinforcing and maintaining these train tracks, she rebels against them and thus faced the implications caused by her former role. She is both the unassuming victim and the merciless accomplice. The train in the metaphor is a passive entity yet its assertion is intentional. This intentionality, however, must be intrinsically embedded into a ‘driving force’ for without it, the train is merely a skeletal body awaiting a purpose. The fuel, therefore, embodies this ‘force’, representing individual moral compasses derived from the premise of collective societal values which breathe life into the train so that it can advance on Anna as punishment for her neglect of social norms. Overall, a deconstruction of the railway components visualises the forces that pulled Anna towards her death, which aids the reader’s understanding of the socio-moral constraints that frame the character’s emotional responses throughout the novel.

In conclusion, the novel remains an enduring example of human nature’s desire to probe the boundaries of our own ‘certainties and ambiguities’ until we encounter a boundary we cannot overcome. With regards to Anna Karenina, the railroad epitomises her unsuccessful experimentation with the confines of the social collective, and the concluding realisation that through our own creation, humankind has established a system that seeks to condition and wear out its occupants – We are free but within limits. The railroad itself is presented as a ‘multi-faceted vehicle of meaning’, with the metaphor’s fecundity expressing Tolstoy’s love of pluralism, however amongst these meanings, it’s the struggle between individuality and conformity that pertains through the novel’s emotional and moral parables.

Is the gender bias still an obstacle to political success?

An excerpt exploring the history of this bias

from Max T’s EPQ

The history that leads to today’s political condition, and the several viewpoints on its modern influence on gender in politics, are expansive. The most occurring point argued by scholars is that history created a formulaic precedent that today’s institutions struggle to break from. The disproportionality in gender representation extends as far back as women could enter politics. After gaining conditional voting rights in the UK in 1918, Patricia M. Thane states that “sections of the press commented slightingly on the small number of female candidates in the general election of 1922”. For Britain, this was the second election that women had suffrage, with most men being heavily involved in British politics since 1265. The disproportions in male versus female candidacy could, at this time, be explained by the brief period that women had political rights. This obstacle-entrenched beginning to women in politics sets a precedent for underrepresentation that chronically disadvantages women to this day. Robert Bahlieda argues from another angle, stating that the influence of the historical patriarchy on the political institutions we live beneath affects every aspect of their performance, from hegemony to ideology. In his chapter titled “The Legacy of the Patriarchy” he argues that the patriarchy is “entrenched in the gender socialisation that pervades the human experience”. This forms a global system in which society’s past fuels a system that is fundamentally unequal - more directly, one that advantages men significantly more than women. This unconscious leftover from another time means more men enter politics, and that the population may be more comfortable allowing men to dominate roles within the political scene.

Many argue that the same effects exert influence on women’s political success today, yet in ways many might not think. The first female bathrooms were built off the floor of the United States Chamber of Representatives in 2011, presumably out of necessity, 233 years after being formed. Some argue this shows a

promising inclusion of women into the political system of the world’s most powerful democracy, however, others are quick to mention the first woman was elected to the house in 1916, 107 years ago. Until 2011, women had to walk to the Reading Room, which was much further away than the men’s restroom, adjacent to the House floor. All sources insinuate that the pre2011 Capitol Hill was an example of how patriarchyinfluenced architecture and design directly affects women today, by causing hindrance to their ability to perform politically. This subscribes an agreement to Robert Bahlieda’s theory of systemic patriarchy, continuing past generational boundaries in a multiplex of ways.

In a 1928 book by D.H Lawrence ‘Phoenix II’, bygone attitudes about women are on full display. D.H Lawrence, a 1920s author, writes about his fears about the impact of growing calls for gender equality on society, giving us an insight into opinions of the time. His posthumous book states:

“Women, women everywhere, and all of them on the warpath. They settle like silky locusts on the jobs, they occupy the offices and the playing fields like immensely active ants, they buzz round the coloured lights of pleasure in amazing bare-armed swarms, and the rather dazed young male is, naturally, a bit scared… Nightmare!”

Scholars such as Tracy Bisling utilise this extract to argue that thinkers of the time feared the distribution of power equally amongst the sexes. In her article ‘To Every Man, the War is Himself’, she argues that women’s work in the munitions factories of World War One, broke the domestic expectations of them, and today’s societal progress is a result of this. Equally, the fearful extracts such as the one above demonstrates the societal movement towards a free woman to be attributed to this period.

Power in Blake and Keats’s poetry

An iGCSE essay

by Jemima J

At the heart of both The Tyger and La Belle Dame Sans Merci lies the greatly prevalent theme of power. In The Tyger, Blake approaches the idea of power in an interrogative fashion: questioning why a being of such great knowledge would create something that rivals a god’s authority and is inherently evil. Keats, however, presents the significance of power by noting what a world with it looks like, and the consequences of losing it.

Both Blake and Keats present power in their poems by establishing the significance of gaining and losing power, and how it establishes divides and threatens. This is most effectively related in The Tyger in line 4: ‘what immortal hand or eye,/ could frame thy fearful symmetry?’ The writer’s use of the repressive verb ‘frame’ emphasises that humanity is becoming too powerful, (the poem was written during the Industrial Revolution), and that it poses a threat to God’s power. This is in co-ordination with fricative alliteration of ‘frame’ and ‘fear’. It at once diminishes God’s authority over his creations and accentuates that of evil’s as it cannot be contained. It is supported in line 16 with the alliteration of D: ‘dare its deadly terrors clasp!’ Dare and deadly, are linked: they both aim to provoke fear and a sense of foreboding. Furthermore, through the connotations of the noun ‘symmetry’ the reader can interpret not only a sense of genius but also an allusion to an omnipotent being. God is often described as allgood, all-powerful and immortal; however, this notion of the tiger (a metaphor for humanity) being symmetrical further implies our threat to God’s power. The writer also uses parallelism by repeating the first and last stanzas to highlight this. It reinforces the relentless questioning throughout the poem, but indicates the futility of it: we will not receiver answers. But it does reveal that possibly following the movement of modernism, humanity breaks away from their un-breaking belief in what God tells them. When at first glance we may have concluded that the poem revers God, it is with closer inspection that we realise that Blake speaks about our conscience and power being a threat to God’s.

In contrast, La Belle Dame Sans Merci presents power in a way that is unquestioning to the one that is dominant: the knight basks in the glory of love but fails to realise the Lady’s control over his very thoughts and self. The reader is exposed mostly effectively to this idea through the words: ‘She found me root of relish sweet, and honey wild, and manna dew.’ The writer use of awkward syntax in ‘relish sweet’ relates the great extent of his

love for her: it draws attention to all thing that are joyous, the word order almost creates a sense that he is savouring everything about the memory. Meanwhile, the polysyndetic list reveals his obsession, as it places emphasis on all of the things she does for him: she has power over him as the provider. Furthermore, the notion of power is made all the more potent through the writer’s description of ‘manna’. This is a religious allusion to the supernatural food God gave the Israelites on their journey out of Egypt. In this way, Keats relates the idea of the Lady being an omnipotent being; and reiterates his obsession. This discussion of the lady being other-worldly is supported in the words ‘a faery’s child,’ and the lexical field of magic. This shows that the two dichotomies of this poem: real and fantastical, are blurring. Both Keats and Blake write about the effect different levels of power can have. Though both allude continuously to a higher being and each have their individual obsessions; one for love, the other for knowledge; The Tyger provokes you to change how you think, while La Belle Dame Sans Merci encourages you to not look too closely at reality.

The Tyger and La Belle Dame Sans Merci both present power by the discussion of the power of creation and the power of death. The Tyger places an emphasis on that of creation while La Belle Dame on death. This effectively shown in lines 13-16: ‘What the hammer? What the chain, in what furnace was thy brain?’ The harsh assonant vowels establish the image of an industrial environment and workshop, mimicking the way Blake believes the Tyger was created. The stop-start rhythm supports this: the intensity and concentration of the passage builds. In addition, the catalectic meter in most lines adds a sense of urgency to the poem as if anticipating the creation of the Tyger. All of this highlights the power and beauty of creation; and the brilliance of the one who created it. In contrast, La Belle Dame focuses on the brutality and significance of death. This is exhibited through juxtaposing lexical fields of vitality (honey, sweet, kisses) and death (palely, loitering, ail). Keat places an emphasis on death: the abrupt end-stop punctuation reveals a sudden change and frantic flow of thoughts, and the diacope of pale shows that he cannot escape the dead.

Taken together, therefore, both poems invite the reader to reflect on power. While The Tyger focuses on questioning power, La Belle Dame discusses the impact power can have on a person.

The role of place in grappling with past traumas in Han Kang’s The White Book

An IB coursework essay

by Orla W

An unconventional, experimental, and striking memoir, The White Book by Han Kang is a subtle yet complex contemplation and meditation on the fragility of life which communicates loss, suffering and brutality, whilst a conflict between life and death remains at its heart. Whilst the narrator struggles to fully transcend and surmount her own grief, a distinct transformation occurs by the end of this narrative. This transformation is manifested via the motif of place, mapping the narrator’s grief in its evolution. Most notably, place is used as an allegory, blurring the boundary between the living and the dead - seen in the narrator’s relationship with her sister, who she tragically lost within two hours of her birth. The use of place holds and expresses the survivors’ guilt that burdens the narrator, who possibly embodies the voice of Han herself, which supports the narrator’s overwhelming desire to transcend grief.

Immediately as the narrative begins, prompting alongside it the journey of healing, the narrator presents place as essential to revealing the narrator’s suffering. The narrator expresses her entrapment through an initially incomprehensible setting ‘here in this unfamiliar city’ in the Fragment Fog. The confinement of the unknown alludes to the narrator’s internal paralysation as a result of grief, seen in the simile ‘body feels like a

prison’, feeling the unescapable tension of suppressing one’s emotions. The enigmatic nature of this unknown city heightens the sequestration effect of her trauma, with the image of ‘the city cloaked in fog’ as a metaphor for the narrator’s perplexity of grief. However, ‘fog’ carries connotations of spirits and ghosts, drawing upon Han’s experience of the Gwangju Massacre in Korea 1980, as disclosed in interviews. Adroitly, the reader is encouraged to reflect on the honouring of the dead, reiterated in the poetic ‘who had at one time died or been destroyed,’ distinctly acknowledging the dignity of the victims. This connection exposes the link between personal suffering and historical suffering, with place seen as a stark reminder of both the potential brutality of humans as well as the survivor’s guilt and grief of the narrator’s past, arousing challenging emotions in her healing. Furthermore, as the narrator begins the journey of navigating her past, the symbolic nature of the strange city ‘cloaked in fog’ discernibly encapsulates her alienation from society as a result of her suffering. As the work continues progressing, the reader is presented with the confrontation of the narrator’s anguish, palpable through the destruction of the city of those, ‘who had… rebuilt themselves on a foundation of fire-scoured ruins’. Here, Han asserts the use of place

as the manifestation of the narrator’s mental suffering, consequently leaving the reader questioning whether the narrator can successfully use place to overcome her past bereavement, or whether place only reinforces and heightens her grief.

Moreover, Han interrogates the healing potential of a place heavy with history, depicting the narrator as unable to vanquish her trauma. Through the narrative’s progression, the reader learns that the unknown city, where ‘there is nothing that has existed for more than seventy years’, is Warsaw, devastated by the inconceivable brutality of WWII yet ‘rebuilt’. It proves to be an allegory for permitting the narrator to express the similarities identified between the city and her own experience regarding her sister’s death. Although she sees her own destruction mirrored by the city, the narrator has found comfort in divulging these similarities as Warsaw has been ‘reconstructed’ despite horrific history, giving the narrator assurance that she too can. Yet the reality that Warsaw was ‘painfully reconstructed’ and ‘all are fakes’ establishes that the city has failed to entirely suppress its traumatic past by sacrificing its authenticity. This is reiterated when the narrator remarks, ‘the boundaries lie conspicuously exposed’. The adverb ‘conspicuously’ illustrates Han’s realisation of the challenges of healing, as loss can never truly be vanquished but forms a paramount part of transformation. Her reflections on the personified Warsaw’s struggles stipulates the narrator’s acknowledgment of her own vulnerability from the effort to overcome her survivor’s guilt. Han continually builds upon this prospect of unreachable freedom when the narrator observes, ‘the only spot of trembling light being the summit of the salt hill’. Through the personification of light, the narrator ostensibly emphasizes ‘the light at the end of the tunnel,’ as the guiding path of ‘light’ is always present no matter the predicament. However, the epithet ‘trembling’ inevitably challenges this notion, paradoxically advocating that those who bear the wounds of grief, guilt, and suffering, encounter an arduous journey to conquer the trauma. This is elucidated by the image of ‘the summit of the salt hill… which was a little taller than the height of a person’, substantiating Han’s argument and justifying the impossibility of subjugating grief. Yet, despite her acknowledgement of the indefinite challenges of restoration and recovery, the narrator continues her course of healing. The motif of fog recurs elsewhere in the narrative, most notably in the metaphor of ‘wreaths of fog…less thick than in the early morning’ in the Fragment of Candle. The narrator assuredly revokes her suppression of guilt, having postulated healing as intangible, as ‘less thick’ affirms her transformation that is beginning, revealing how place has catalysed the narrator’s internal interrogation of her untreated trauma. Finally, place yields an opportunity for the narrator to confront her previous suffering through the dynamic relationship between Seoul, Han’s home city, and Warsaw. Consequently, the reader’s confidence in the critical power of place to support the narrator’s internal conflict grows, as the narrator attests to grappling with

bereavement. In the Fragment White City, the narrator proclaims how the ‘person had met the same fate as that city’. Here, Han draws parallels between Warsaw, Gwangju and her individual experience of grief, exhibiting the trope of her sister providing an alter ego for the narrator, which subsequently exploits Warsaw as a reminder of the narrator’s endeavour to give life to her sister, an imperative part of her healing journey. This is ratified in the metanarrative statement, ‘she grew up inside this story’, asserting the ability of The White Book itself as a place for the containment of internal suffering as it provides an imaginative space in which her sister is “given life.” Additionally, this particular Fragment is found in the second section, ‘She,’ where the alteration from 1st person to 3rd person perspective augments the detachment of the narrator, as the narrative adopts an objective stance. This denotes not only a recreation of her sister’s imagined life but more significantly alludes to the transformational journey of the self taking place, as the narrator strives to distance herself from her anguish. The citizens of Warsaw are also compelling in urging the narrator to prevail over her affliction. They are presented as a parallel to the narrator’s own endeavour as she learns through her experience in Warsaw, the importance of confronting mental suffering, and of constructing a new self on the destruction left behind by the old: ‘the people of this city did not light candles… they want to draw out their grief as long as possible’. Here, Han additionally strives to challenge her own Korean culture; despite some deaths being regarded shamefully, such as those in the Gwangju Massacre, she proposes that death should neither be romanticized nor dishonoured, as with the Polish citizens who believe ‘there is no shame in having been butchered’. Furthermore, as The White Book ends, the narrator makes a final comment on Seoul. The metaphorical and symbolic purpose of the city is manifested when she exclaims, ‘Seoul, which I had last seen in summer, had frozen’. The setting of Seoul induces this self-transformation which has ensued throughout the narrative, as the narrator transcends even the stark cultural differences of Warsaw and Seoul in order to find peace and healing in these countries’ mourning, and of herself.

Overall, the use of place as a catalyst for grappling with past trauma’s remains ambivalent. As the narrative begins, place is suggestive of the intricate difficulties Han has faced in contending with her internal agony, as the city setting is reminiscent of her distressing past. Yet, as healing progresses, the historical setting encourages the narrator’s acknowledgment of her own challenges in suppressing her survivor’s trauma. This is reinforced by the most notable aspect of place: the struggle to entirely subdue the past, allegorical of the narrator’s own failure to heal. However, Han reaches the assertion that a focus on place has successfully empowered her to draw parallels between Warsaw, Seoul, and her own life, thus creating from this a new life for her late sister. Therefore, the narrator’s healing journey in The White Book substantiates the thought that only through the confrontation of grief can trauma be grappled with, and healing be fulfilled.

Outside Bars

The opening to an iGCSE creative writing coursework piece

by Scarlett O

There’s something soothingly detached about being in a train station with nowhere to go. The blinding black and white panic I felt inside my car has settled, slipped away into the purposeful chaos of the crowd. Here, my displaced emotions are lost in the multitude, each life so intricate that in a place like this, emotion is just a grey blur.

I barely remember driving here. I only remember my alarm clock, luminescent digits in the hazy darkness of my room, threatening 12:00. Tomorrow. I blink a few times and lean back against the glossy plastic seat.  Ignoring the problem has never worked for me, not when it’s right there in front of me, a restless ghost. Or right behind me.

My phone is a dead weight in my pocket, untouched. I’ve been putting off checking the time, as if I can ignore the day of the year until it changes. In case it might skip.  Wishful thinking at its finest, Remy. With brittle fingers, I remove it, tap the screen, cold finger against cold glass.  8:06am, 26th April.

Ten years is a long time

An eight year old boy sat cross-legged on the grass. There was a hollow space in the sky where the sun should have been, and the clouds were spilling into it, grey and blue blotting and blossoming through each other. Like watercolour ink, the boy thought.

He’d been sitting outside for a long time.

Maybe it’d been two hours, maybe three, since his mother had taken his hand, firmly, but with a fleeting shiver. Even though it wasn’t cold, he thought, frowning.

‘Stay here Remy, promise?’ That was what she said, smiling, holding his hand.

Then she’d let go of his hand, and gone back into the house, and Remy had made daisy chains, like Isla taught him to last week, at school, until the shadows had all moved. He’d made daisy bracelets for his mother, and for Gabby, even though she was just little. He even made one for his father, although he hadn’t wanted Remy’s drawing he made last week, so maybe he wouldn’t want his daisies either.

Now the bracelets were scattered in the grass beside him, and his hands were empty. The brick wall of the side of their house was flashing, red and blue. The sirens had stopped though, now, and he was glad, although he almost missed the noise. He hadn’t heard voices for hours.

He’d been sitting outside for a long time.

A train station is the best place for a train wreck, that’s why I’m here. I guess you could argue it’s not a good place for a train wreck at all, but is anywhere? At least here it makes sense. Fits in. You might even say belongs.

I scan the people passing me, wonder how many of their lives are crashing down too. There’s a man, distinctly stereotypical, wearing a stylish yet careful suit. Everything about him is functional, but very precise. He carries a rectangular black bag, and walks rhythmically, meticulously. Predictably.

But I’ve learnt from someone that predictable is never really a suitable adjective for anyone. And as I watch the man climb into a train, I see him stumble slightly, and his face contorts, features unbalanced, until the moment of vulnerability passes, and his expression smooths over. And then the train leaves, and he’s gone.

It’s an odd feeling, knowing you’ll never see someone ever again, even if you’d never seen them before. Lonely, but strangely liberating.

A girl sits a few seats across from me. Her dirty white Nikes are curled beneath her, faded jeans skimming her chin, dark, satiny hair dropping over her shoulder. She’s smiling at her phone. I flick my eyes quickly at her screen, tell myself I’m curious, not nosy. Ignore the fact it’s the same thing. Her phone case has daisies on it. But her screen is blank.

I glance at her, but she’s not smiling anymore. Now she’s looking back at me, eyebrows raised. She gets up, walks away, and I feel like an idiot. Good judgement isn’t something I’ve ever had. Or basic restraint.

Not that looking at someone’s phone is a crime. But it’s an invasion of privacy, I remind myself. And then, She looked a bit like Isla

I don’t know who I’m looking for anymore.

It was Wednesday evening. He was sitting on the kitchen table, Gabby was on the floor. His mother had come back and then gone again, said she would talk to them both when she got back. He’d been listening for the tyres-on-gravel for a while before he actually heard it.

‘Mum!’

The front door was locked, but he waited by the doormat until it was opened.

‘Hey Remy,’ she said kneeling down, holding onto him as he gripped her shoulders. ‘Where’s Gabby, sweetie?’

Remy motioned behind him. ‘In the kitchen,’ he said, clasping her hand as they went through. She picked her up. ‘Stupid idea, leaving a five year old alone in a house with an eight year old boy. I kept thinking about you two.’

She spoke affectionately, but her hand was tighter than usual around Remy’s.

‘Did you go back to that place?’ asked Remy. He’d been there earlier. He hadn’t liked the flashing cars, or the cold room where he’d had to wait for ages and ages.

‘Sort of.’ She shuffled her feet restlessly. ‘Listen, Rem, I need to tell you something.’

She sat down opposite him at the table, still gently clasping Gabby, whose grey eyes were now scrutinising her mother’s face.

‘Mummy,’ she croaked. ‘Mummy.’

She tugged impatiently on her sleeve.

‘Just a minute Gab.’

‘Mum, mummy,’ she whined. ‘What!’

Gabby gestured feverishly at the door. ‘Why -‘ she grunted frustratedly-‘Why - where’s Daddy gone-‘

‘Shh, don’t cry. Daddy -‘ she hesitated. ‘Remy, Gabby. Daddy won’t be coming back for a while. He’s had -‘

Her syllables were spilling over each other, and she paused, blinked carefully. Gabby had fallen silent.

Remy stared at her, something tight burning in his throat. ‘Did he have an accident?’

She rubbed the top of her nose.

‘No, honey. Daddy-‘

‘What happened to him?’

‘Give me a second, Rem.’ She breathed, her body juddering slightly.

Looked at him kindly, but her eyes were glassy. ‘Daddy’s been taken to prison.’

Psychotic, peculiar and arguably insane: Browning and the dramatic monologue

An excerpt on The Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister

from Scarlett H’s EPQ

The poem portrays the grumblings of a jealous monk, finding his pleasures more in flesh than in spirit. Personally, the monk presents himself as the model of righteousness; ‘there go, my heart’s abhorrence!’ Yet, as the speaker condemns his fellow monk with phrases of judgment regarding his immorality, stating ‘God’s blood, would not mine kill you!’,it is soon recognised that the faults he assigns to Brother Lawrence are in fact his own.

Browning exercises the dramatic monologue to craft the speaker’s inner thoughts, exploring multiple facets of voice, and thus disclosing the cloister’s and the church’s hypocrisy. The Spanish cloister incriminates himself ceaselessly throughout the poem while attempting to berate Brother Lawrence. This is shown most vividly in his description of Lawrence watching the women bathe, however, his detailed description of their steeping tresses being ‘blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs,’contradicts him. This tricolon, allows the speaker to take many voices in the same consciousness while crafting his inner thoughts of lust. Largely exemplified is his ambiguous mental state as a religious man, wanting to sell his soul to the devil, exclaiming ‘or, there’s Satan!’, showing his lack of will and the instability of his principles. Further, he utilises this questioning to indirectly disclose his views on the hypocrisy regarding the morality of the church, hence criticising the establishment for its privileged hubris.

The dramatic monologue is practised to reveal the commentator’s subjective responses, rather than the actions he discusses. As the speaker tells us little of Lawrence, it evokes the Cloister’s hypocrisy and pathological involution, alluding that Lawrence’s holy values are illuminated in opposition to the speaker. Further, the poem’s analysis of the passion of hate as Lawrence contradicts himself attempting to cloak his inner corruption. Therefore, the real cause of hatred is found in himself; he is egocentric and self-satisfied. Despite the appeal of his diabolical ingenuity, his malicious nature provides lots of justification for the reader’s poor viewing of him.

However, the implementation of ‘Hy, zy, hine,’ as well as the counterbalance of motifs and soliloquised structure, create an impression of a violent, discorded hatred. The soliloquy gives an impression of animalistic hatred, coupled with the bestial growls that frame the poem from start to finish. The growls allow Browning to dramatize the idea of Satan entering a beast, therefore the epithet ‘you swine,’ not only mirrors the possessed Gadarene Swine of the New Testament, but the absence of italics shows him hurling the insult at Lawrence and himself. The allegorical nature of the poem parallels John Milton’s Paradise Lost: not only does his hate of Lawrence’s goodness reflect Milton’s Satan having hatred of the sun but his holy work accommodating the baseless evil of his secret foe mirrors Paradise Lost on a human scale. Further, his drastic counterpoise of motifs such as watering the garden, and hell flames springing up and even the opening line ‘there go,’ near rhymes ‘Virgo’ in the last, evoking the ‘chilling intellectual madness of a madman. This is due to the immense paradox between his description of intermediate daily responsibilities and their metaphoric representation but of the sharpness of his mind, ambiguous of his intelligence or his incapable, insane state. Additionally, ‘Hy, Zy, Hine,’ can be read as a satanic utterance by it translating to’ hurry, slave, descend’, and this can be furthered by the italics, suggesting an ‘incantatory force’22, not belonging to the cloister. As the line trails off (Hy, Zy, Hine…), it links to the folk belief of demons driven by the vesper bells. The poem supports this as ‘st, there’s vespers,’ followed by ‘Ave’, suggesting he will be praying in a hollow voice and reinforces the` ambiguity between being possessed and being insane. In addition, the satanic theme dichotomises around him possessing pure evil or the vanity and pettiness of an evil man who is measured against Satan’s power.

What Historians can learn from observing the impact of climate on past empires

A highly commended history submission to the Northeastern University London Essay Competition

by Sebastian K

History often tells us that the rise and fall of great empires is a product of individual leadership, military power, economic strength, and social stability. But there is one feature of history that has significantly affected our planet’s empires that many historians choose to ignore. This feature, the very backbone of the earth we live on, is our climate and the changes it has witnessed in the last four millennia of human empires. Climate change, despite often being seen as a process that has only occurred due to human industrialisation in the past 200 years, is a very natural phenomenon and has had a profound impact on the great powers of new and old. It has caused terrible drought, disease and famine that has rippled deep into a myriad of empires causing unrest and collapse rupturing imperial rule. However, climate has not always been an imperial nemesis.

Throughout history, our climate has also worked to benefit those fortunate powers who have seen golden ages in climates providing the conditions for imperial expansion. Historians can learn a valuable lesson that our climate is in no way inconsequential and should not be ignored when considering the empires of history and those of tomorrow.

Climate change has led to adverse weather and temperatures resulting in famines which have caused the demise of a multitude of empires. One of the first empires impacted by climate-induced famines is the Akkadian empire. In 2250BC, a cooling period disrupted the soil and vegetation growth in its lands, which led to widespread famine. This famine caused social unrest and instability in the empire which would eventually

bring it to its demise in 2137BC. Along with social unrest, climate-induced famines have also caused migration impacting empires far from the original source. One example is the Huns, who after a widespread “megadrought” in central Asia in the 4th century AD, began migrating west to the fertile lands of Europe around 375AD pushing other tribes westwards. This prompted the Goths to increasingly attack Roman borders due to this increased pressure from the Huns. These newfound attacks would lead to the eventual sacking of Rome by the Goths in 410AD. Thus, climate change played a relatively unknown but key role in the fall of Rome. The Ottoman empire was also severely impacted by climate-induced famines. During the Little Ice Age (1303-1850), the Ottoman empire witnessed extreme cold weather around 1600AD. This brought famine across Anatolia, the heartland of the Ottoman empire. This famine and the inefficient Ottoman response led to the Celli rebellion in 1596. Although the Ottoman empire succeeded in re-establishing control in Anatolia, the rebellion weakened the Sultan’s presence in the region and this internal instability would severely hinder hopes of Ottoman expansion. This rebellion would mark the beginning of the end for the Ottoman empire. Around this period in China, ruled by the Ming Dynasty, temperatures fell by 1.18oC (1610-1650) leading to famine and drought. These famines would impact its military supply system which weakened the army. It necessitated increased military expenditure which resulted in a severe fiscal crisis. The climate-induced famines also led to a 20-50% reduction in per capita

production of grain, leading to grave food shortages. These events then triggered peasant uprisings, one of which, led by Li Zicheng, would seize Beijing and end the Ming Dynasty in 1644. Thus, from observing the fall of past empires, historians can learn that climate change and subsequent famine and social instability have had an untold, destructive impact on some of the greatest powers to grace time.

Often when it comes to the fall of empires disease and climate change work hand in hand in the collapse. Two iterations of the bubonic plague, both caused by climate change, irrevocably weakened two of the largest empires in history. The Justinian plague emerged in 541AD (and lasted until the beginning of the Medieval Warming Period in 750AD). It occurred shortly after a global cooling period due to a series of volcanic eruptions in 535AD that cooled the earth by 2.5oC. The resulting colder weather, droughts and subsequent famine weakened human immune systems and forced humans and rodents (housing flea vectors) to cohabit more closely than before. The disease does not survive above 25oC so the colder climate accentuated its expansion. Justinian had made substantial progress in stabilising and restoring the Roman empire including recapturing Italy and North Africa. However, these successes were reversed following the climate changes of 536AD and subsequent disease with Procopius saying it may have caused 5-10,000 daily deaths. Agricultural production fell due to the colder climate and reduced numbers of farmers. Economic activity

declined and tax income was reduced. Militarily, the weakened and less well-funded army was defeated by the Persian empire between 544-545 and Totila was able to recover much of Italy and turn the tides of the Gothic War. Although the Byzantine empire would survive and last until 1453, never again would there be the potential of it reconquering what had been the Western Roman Empire. A subsequent shift in climate with the Little Ice Age from the early 1300s saw a similar climatic change with declining temperatures leading to the re-emergence of plague with the Black Death, which seeped into Europe and Asia in the 1340s. The Little Ice Age facilitated the right condition for the plague with lower temperatures, poor harvests and in places either severe rainfall or drought. The Black Death had a profound impact on all the world empires at the time, most significantly on the Mongol empire. A mortality rate of 40% was estimated in the various cities of the Mongol empire. This destabilised and halted the expansion of all four Khanates of the Mongolian empire. On top of this, the head of the Ilkhanate Empire and six of his sons died of the plague as well as potentially many of the leaders of the Golden Horde, creating political vacuums. This instability played a key role in orchestrating the end of the Mongol empire in 1368. From these examples, historians can learn that climate changes in particular drops in temperature have led to poor harvests, lower economic growth, reduced human immunity and favourable conditions for disease impacting two of the world’s largest empires and many others.

However, unlike today where climate change is seen as a negative phenomenon, across History it has also benefited many empires. One example of this is the Roman empire. During the ‘Roman Climate Optimum’ from around 200BC to 150AD, Europe saw warm, wet, and favourable climatic conditions which resulted in greater agricultural production and a lower likelihood of disease. This warm climate instigated major economic productivity for Rome’s agrarian society and was a vital factor in Rome’s ability to control its vast empire by reducing social unrest, ensuring the population was fed and enhancing trade. Thus, despite climate change bringing Rome to its knees, it also helped its rise to power significantly. Another example of imperial growth due to Climate Change is the Islamic Empire, whose ‘Golden Age’ (750-1257) coexisted with the medieval warming period. The higher temperatures led to droughts in the Arabian desert, which forced large numbers of ethnic Arabs to migrate to Syria.

The presence of these Arabs would prove vital in the Muslim conquests of Northern Syria in the 7th century. The warmer temperatures also provided better conditions for agriculture in Mesopotamia, which led to economic stability and population growth. These factors significantly aided the rise of the Islamic Empire Another empire to benefit from climate change is the Mongol empire under Genghis Khan. A study has shown that in the 13th century towards the end of the Medieval warming period, the Mongolian Climate shifted to one of heavy rainfall and cooler temperatures. These conditions led to the growth of grasslands across Mongolia. These grasslands benefited Genghis Khan greatly as they helped feed herds of Mongol horses which acted as the backbone for Khan’s military strategy. And so, Climate change was an enabler in the unification of the Mongol tribes and the rise of the Mongol empire. Other empires benefiting from favourable climate conditions in their expansions include the Vikings and the Incas. It can also be argued that the unusually wet period in the first half of the nineteenth century was a key point in the expansion of the United States as it enabled increased agricultural production in the central Great Plains attracting increased immigration and western migration. Therefore, historians can learn that favourable climate conditions have been important factors in the rise of empires, in particular with agricultural surpluses enabling societies to seek expansion rather than survival.

Thus, in conclusion, historians have often focused on the “Great Man” theory of history and have only observed military, economic and social reasoning when studying the rise and fall of empires. However, Historians may better learn from studying the climate and the impact that it has had on past empires, an element of history that has been commonly ignored. From this, Historians will see that many empires were not totally responsible for their growth or collapse and were instead at the mercy of the climate. Looking forward, the fact temperature changes of just a couple of degrees have brought many empires to their knees doesn’t spell good news for the future, as forecasts suggest temperatures will rise by 2oC this century. So, Historians have a key role to play in today’s climate crisis and need to use the past to warn politicians, scientists, and others about how terrible the impact of climate change will be. As by doing this, Historians can protect current and future empires and states alike and prevent history from repeating itself once again.

Sieva Maria’s body as a critique of colonialism in Marquez’s Of Love and Other Demons

An IB coursework essay

by Sophia L

Set in eighteenth century post-colonial Cartagena de Indias, the primary slave port of South America, the narrative follows Sierva Maria de Todos Los Angeles after she is bitten by a rabid dog and is believed to have suffered demonic possession. Through subtle use of magic realism, Marquez illuminates the destructive symbiosis of the ideals of the Inquisition. Spanish Imperialism reached Colombia in 1492 and welcomed an era of annexation driven by the Catholic Church. Marquez presents the deterioration of Sierva’s body as a catalyst to confront the culpability of the Church in enforcing and sustaining colonialism, exposing its hypocritical attitudes towards, and uses of, physical suffering. In particular, Marquez critiques colonial concepts of love and fear of “the Other” ubiquitous in post-colonial society. Carolyn Ureña argues that the former “dangerously fetishizes the beloved object and participates in the oppression and subjugation of difference”, thus we can consider the presentation of Sierva’s body as a tool to advocate for its opposite: decolonial love defined by Ureña as an acceptance of a redefined shared humanity that articulates antiimperialist and anti-hegemonic effect. The latter, defined as fearing individuals or groups of perceived difference, manifests within the novel through the racial and cultural conflicts which drive Sierva’s corporeal demise.

The overwhelming incongruity between the insignificance of Sierva’s dog bite wound and the proliferating hysteria inspired by it introduces colonial Othering forces in society. Throughout the

novel Marquez uses Sierva’s body to represent the convergence between indigenous and colonial beliefs as a character caught between the worlds of the colonised and the colonisers. When Sierva’s mother banishes her to the slave courtyard, Dominga, the matriarch of the slaves, rejects imperial familial designations, and acts as a surrogate mother to Sierva, immersing her in the slaves’ cultures. Marquez delineates her cultural integration as her father finds her in the courtyard of their home “helping to skin rabbits, and her face was painted black, her feet were bare, and her head was wrapped in the red turban used by slave women” (14). This Otherness displayed by Sierva is vilified; Bernarda, Sierva’s birth mother, scorns, “the only thing white about that child is her colour” (46) in response to her banishment. Marquez focuses on her wound’s benign nature to expose how the bite becomes a pretext for society to later ‘cure’ Sierva of this feared Otherness. He recounts an almost allegorical narrative of a rabid dog biting the twelve year old’s ankle whilst at the market, yet the omniscient narrator repeatedly emphasises that the remaining abrasion was just “a little break in the skin on her left ankle, with a scab of dried blood” (11). Maintaining an objective tone, Marquez reinforces the innocuity of Sierva’s wounded ankle as Bernarda eventually concludes there is no threat of rabies from the “almost invisible wound” (6); in fact, “the wound was dry and not even a trace of abrasions remained” (12). Despite this, an underlying ominous potential remains attributed to the wound, allowing Marquez to question the ignorance and prejudices that incite the widespread superstition

and trepidation around Sierva’s condition. Ultimately, the benign presentation of Sierva’s wound undermines society’s apprehension towards her character, proposing the presence of ostracizing, Othering attitudes under a post-colonial society.

Sierva becomes the object of a cruel and invasive medical and religious inquisition which begins her corporeal and psychological demise. The Marquis, a patriarchial microcosm for colonialsm, has an epiphany to absolve his daughter of the Afro-Caribbean influences in her upbringing and finds sudden purpose in trying to “teach her to be a real white” (48). This white saviour complex is fuelled by his fear of Sierva’s Otherness. Two months into teaching her to negate any Black identity and assimilate with white culture, Sierva Maria falls ill and Caridad del Cobre tells him, “Señor my poor girl is turning into a dog” (51). Through a magic realist lens, this illness may be considered a physical manifestation of the psychological damage of the cruel imposition of his beliefs and practices. However, Sierva’s father believes that she has contracted rabies and calls a range of spiritual and religious healers to cure Sierva of an illness she does not have. Here, the heroine’s body becomes a battleground for ideological conflicts. This begins when a young doctor “opened Sierva Maria’s closed wound” (52); the antithesis between the verbs “opened” and “closed” depicts a mal application of science through superstition that takes place. Sierva is reduced to a body of pain delineated through the tricolon, “a fiery ulcer on her ankle, her body was scalded by mustard plasters and blistering poultices and the skin on her stomach was raw” (52). Each description is of a sore that will scar, intimating that she will never fully recover from the pain endured, including the psychological wounds. These practices drive her to a level of distress such that people believe she has been possessed. Marquez’s portrayal of damaging healing reveals the ways in which ‘colonial love’ perpetuates a violent colonial legacy. Contrastingly, Abrenuncio extends a form of ‘decolonial love’ to Sierva by offering the Marquis the emotionally healing advice, “no medicine cures what happiness cannot” (33). As a Jewish doctor, Abrenuncio is one of the few forces within the novel that does not represent the Catholic Church. This unconditionally loving form of treatment would have allowed her to embrace that which brings her joy, and thus may not have led to the creation of her “demons”. While the girl found spiritual freedom self-identifying with the African slaves, the Marquis was determined to impose his culture on her, stripping her from the people and practices she loved in the name of Christian salvation. Marquez uses Sierva’s tormented body as a medium to promote the salience of ‘decolonial love’, by embracing cultural difference and personal sources of joy, to heal the wounds of imperialism.

In a demonisation of her Blackness, Sierva is pushed to the very limits of her physical and emotional being towards the end of the novel. Despite showing no signs of rabies, Sierva’s ‘non-white’ and thus seemingly concerning behaviour is attributed to the bite. In a state of desperation, the Marquis turns towards the Church for recourse and takes his daughter to the

convent of Santa Clara where religious authority claim her symptoms are ones of demonic possession. Marquez foregrounds the sheer dehumanisation of the protagonist under the care of the convent in her first encounter with her exorcist Cayetano Delaura. In a description evocative of slavery practices, Sierva lies restrained, punished for having been violent, with “her feet and hands bound with leather straps” (86). This is a visceral manifestation of the imperial determination to strip subjects of power and force them into submission, rooted in fearing the Other. Sierva’s rebellious comportment is immediately castigated rather than questioned and cared for. She is kept in appalling conditions including a cell that fills with “her own dung heap” (87), accentuating Catholic hypocrisy in presenting itself as a religion of compassion. The colonial love of the Church aims to absolve Sierva from damnation, leading her to the point where, “her body was so emaciated that the straps no longer confined her” (160), suggesting she only found freedom approaching death. In fact, in death, “strands of hair gushed like bubbles as they grew back” (160) from her skull, a magic realist image reinforcing ideas of liberation brought by death. This denouement used by Marquez proposes his feelings of futility when seeking resolutions to inherent colonial conflicts. Set in the present day, the novel’s Prologue lies inextricably along a similar boundary of magic realism, establishing the cyclical narrative structure. During an archaeological dig of the convent, the narrator observes “[a] stone shattered at the first blow of the pickaxe and a stream of living hair the intense colour of copper spilled out of the crypt” (2). The paradoxically violent and resurrecting impact of the pickaxe begins Marquez’s proposal that emotional freedom under a post-colonial society can only be achieved through the destruction of entrapping prejudices and corrupt religious values. The defiant dimensions of Sierva’s hair measuring “twentytwo meters, eleven centimetres” (3) reflect her rebellious character throughout her life and establish a symbol of insurgence. Ultimately, both the novel’s tragic ending and its prologue critique the malignant enforcement of colonial binary thinking, underpinning the vilification of Black culture that triggers the fatal deterioration of Sierva’s body.

The presentation of Sierva Maria’s body throughout the novel can be considered a site of oppression to confront colonialism and its devastating sociological impact. In particular, the degeneration of her body, from medical malpractice to barbaric exorcism, exposes prevailing prejudices entrenched in fear of the Other. It is the fear of Sierva’s “Otherness” that demonises her embodiment of Black culture, leading her to death. Through this, Marquez critiques the religious contradictions that perpetuate repressive and Othering power structures. The magic realist revival of her hair in death serves as a final defiance against regnant forces present in Spanish-Colombian society as Marquez advocates for decolonial love to heal colonial trauma.

Shakespeare’s supernatural in Macbeth

An iGCSE coursework essay

by Sunay P

William Shakespeare’s Macbeth, a classic tragedy first performed at Court before King James I in 1606, explores a range of motifs from Macbeth’s vaulting ambition to the idea of violence begetting violence, a prominent theme of Greek tragedies. Most notably, however, Shakespeare discusses the notion of the corrupting nature of the supernatural in two main ways: the characters of the witches, and a series of guilt-inspired hallucinations that haunt Macbeth and Lady Macbeth throughout the play. The three witches in Macbeth would have been highly controversial characters at Shakespeare’s time of writing. Belief in supernatural beings was extremely prevalent during the early 17th century, and audiences would have been fearful of the characters presented in this play. Specifically, King James expressed acute interest in the metaphysical. The newly crowned monarch is known to have played an active role in the North Berwick trials that began in 1590, which implicated over seventy people from East Lothian, Scotland, accused of witchcraft in St Andrew’s Auld Kirk on Halloween Night. Furthermore, James methodically researched and wrote about witchcraft, publishing his book Daemonologie in 1597. The witches in the play almost serve as a catalyst for Macbeth’s actions, aiming to exploit his hamartia: his all-consuming ambition and hunger for power. The two scenes in the play in which the witches present a series of prophecies to Macbeth (Act 1 Scene 3 and Act 4 Scene 1), coax him into an inexorable cycle of greed, in which his murderous deeds fuel further violence, and

can only be ceased by his eventual decapitation in Act 5 Scene 8. Macbeth also falls victim to a host of visions that haunt him and mark his descent into psychological madness. The two most crucial of these visions occur in Act 2 Scene 1 and Act 3 Scene 4: the famous dagger soliloquy, in which Macbeth sees “a dagger of the mind” (2.1.38) pointing him towards Duncan’s bedroom, and the banquet scene, where Banquo’s ghost, arguably an accumulation of Macbeth’s guilt, appears to haunt him, respectively. In this essay, I will discuss how Shakespeare explores this central motif of the supernatural, by exploring three pivotal scenes in the play: Act 2 Scene 1, Act 3 Scene 4 and Act 4 Scene 1. In Act 2 Scene 1, Shakespeare begins to reveal how the witches’ prophecies have influenced Macbeth directly to the audience, through the renowned dagger soliloquy. By leaving Macbeth alone on stage, the audience is able to connect with the protagonist’s complex character, as we see the first signs of his descent into madness. The structure of the lines in his speech precisely echoes the swings from lucidity to mental disturbance that characterize Macbeth throughout the play. There are three false alarms, “I see thee still…I see thee yet…I see thee still” (2.1.35/40/45). Between each of these alarms comes a moment of respite, Macbeth’s lines of clear expression dramatically opposing his moments of instability, a trait common of his character throughout the play, especially in Act 5. From lines 35-39, Shakespeare employs two contrasting lexical fields, one of violence, involving words such as

“fatal” (2.1.36) and “dagger” (2.1.38), and another of the metaphysical, involving words such as “vision” (2.1.36) and “false creation” (2.1.38). This immediately draws a link between violence and the supernatural in the play, serving to convey the beginnings of Macbeth’s corruption, with his thoughts slowly turning to murder. Shakespeare also personifies the dagger throughout the soliloquy, depicting his descent into madness as he is directed towards King Duncan’s chamber, as his all-consuming ambition begins to overcome him and his morals can no longer be relied on for control, “Thou marshall’st me the way that I was going,” (2.1.42). After the third alarm on line 45, there is a sudden shift in tone to a semantic field of death and murder, comprising of words such as, “blade” (2.1.46), “gouts of blood” (2.1.46) and “bloody business” (2.1.48), functioning to mark the shift in Macbeth’s mind towards murder. At this point, the audience begins to understand that Duncan’s murder is inevitable, as the witches have successfully corrupted Macbeth to complete the three prophecies revealed in Act 1 Scene 3. A subsequent lexical field of witchcraft serves to further validate Macbeth’s corruption, most notably with the word “wolf” (2.1.53), alluding to the witches adding “tooth of wolf” (4.1.22) to their potion at the beginning of Act 4 Scene 1. This illustrates the extent to which the witches have exploited Macbeth, as he foreshadows a line from the third witch much later in the play. There is also a shift in tone around this point of the soliloquy to one of high rhetoric and classical allusion, containing references to “Hecate” (2.1.52), the goddess of witchcraft, and “Tarquin” (2.1.55), the seventh and final King of Rome, known for murdering Servius Tullius and the rape of Lucretia. These allusions function on two levels: firstly, they correlate to how he must act to succeed with Duncan’s murder, the reference to Lucius Tarquinius Superbus highlighting how Macbeth must be stealthy, and Hecate reinforcing his supernatural corruption. Furthermore, the change in language implies how Macbeth is putting on a ‘mask’ in preparation for the murder, revisiting the motif of duplicity, first established by Lady Macbeth telling Macbeth to “look like th’innocent flower,/But be the serpent under’t.” (1.6.63-64). Finally, Macbeth employs the rhetoric of the witches in the final line of the soliloquy, “That summons thee to heaven or to hell.” (2.1.65). The binary opposition of “heaven” and “hell” is a further allusion to Macbeth’s corruption by the witches, as he utilises language characteristic of them during the play. This is a second indication to the audience of Macbeth’s demise, after his first line in the play, “So foul and fair a day I have not seen.” (1.3.36), a direct reference to the infamous chant from the witches in the first scene, “Fair is foul and foul is fair,” (1.1.12). These reoccurring binary oppositions demonstrate to the audience the manipulative powers of the metaphysical creatures in the play, serving to convey the corrupting nature of the supernatural.

In Act 3 Scene 4, the audience discovers Macbeth’s total loss of control. The appearance of the ghost of his former friend, Banquo, establishes the idea of his past coming to haunt him, as his guilt seizes control of his mind. The opening lines of the scene suggest a renewal of order and symmetry in Scotland.

Shakespeare elects to structure the initial eight lines in prose, and Macbeth’s opening line of, “You know your own degrees” (3.4.1), serves to create a sense of irony, as the audience understands that this sense of order is non-existent. Degree, or rank-order, has been perverted by Macbeth’s murder of Duncan and usurpation of the throne. This dramatic irony almost displays Macbeth’s arrogance, and how his thirst for power is controlling his actions, revealing to the audience how the witches are so easily able to exploit him. As Macbeth now proceeds to greet the First Murderer, we see an abrupt change in language on hearing the unwelcome news that Fleance has escaped his treachery, “But now I am cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in/ To saucy doubts and fears.” (3.4.24-25). The alliteration of the hard c sound in the phrase, “cabined, cribbed, confined”, discloses Macbeth’s sense of constraint, in contrast to the freedom which he claims to have enjoyed previously. From this, we understand that the Weird Sisters have trapped him into following his ambition, corrupting him into futilely attempting to stop the witch’s prophecies by any means necessary, resulting in further violence. At this point, the rich banquet, a symbol of great orderliness and generosity, now becomes a hellish parody of itself, as Macbeth sees his throne has been usurped by the bloody apparition of Banquo. This vision is likely to be a manifestation of Macbeth’s guilt. The ghost also begins to corrupt Macbeth, as his language shifts once more to a gothic tone like that of the witches, describing the spirit as so hideous it “might appal the devil” (3.4.59), also referencing “charnelhouses” (3.4.71) and “maws of kites” (3.4.73). In contrast to the urgent horror of Macbeth’s addresses to the gruesome apparition are moments of comparative calm, Macbeth speaking in a more lyrical expression as he recomposes himself, “Can such things be, / And overcome us like a summer’s cloud, / Without our special wonder?” (3.4.110-112). The structure of the scene depicts a man swinging from one state of mind to another, recalling the structure of the dagger soliloquy. This alternating structure strongly adds to the impression of Macbeth’s loss of control, as his guilt has truly taken him to the point of psychological madness. After the guests leave the banquet, there is a short coda to the scene where Macbeth regains his composure. The language of this short section of the scene is dominated by the repeated word “blood”. This refers to the idea that a tide of violence and murder has now been initiated which Macbeth is powerless to stop, “I am in blood /Stepped in so far that should I wade no more, /Returning were as tedious as go’er.” (3.4.136138), highlighting how the witches have successfully exploited Macbeth into a cycle of murder. Furthermore, it alludes to the motif of blood representing guilt in the play, Shakespeare revealing how Macbeth’s immense guilt has now taken control of his actions.

In Act 4 Scene 1, for the second time in the play, there is a clandestine meeting between Macbeth and the three witches. Once more, Macbeth aims to achieve control over his life but instead is foolishly buoyed by what he hears, rather than fearing what they say, not understanding that his fate is inevitable. Contextually, the characters of the witches display the instability

in the monarchy of Scotland in the play. In 1604, right after King James I ascended to the English throne, a new Witchcraft Act was passed, extending the scope of witchcraft-related crimes that could be punished by death. Although James became more sceptical about the possibility of witchcraft as his reign progressed, charges of witchcraft in Great Britain continued, with Scotland experiencing several witch hunts throughout the 17th century. Historically, periods of concern about witchcraft tend to overlap with periods of political instability and anxieties about power dynamics. By combining the presence of witches with similar themes in Macbeth, Shakespeare utilises the motif of witchcraft to signal to the audience that Scotland is in a vulnerable and unsettled state. The scene opens with the witches, once again appearing in the middle of a thunderstorm, concocting a frankly gruesome and morbid potion. Not for the first time in the play, Shakespeare leans heavily on recognisable tropes, accentuating the disturbing behaviour of the witches, which functions to create an ominous mood from the outset. The gothic language utilised by Shakespeare throughout the play dominates the ingredients of the potion. All of them are poisonous and are the entrails or body parts of loathed animals or humans, which can be combined to interpret the making of a complete monster. The particularly disturbing ingredient of “finger of birth-strangled babe” (4.1.30) alludes to Lady Macbeth telling Macbeth she would have “dashed the brains out” (1.7.58) of her own baby earlier in the play. The effect of this introduction is to terrify the audience: we are reminded through these startling images that the witches’ preoccupation is with evil, and that they are not to be trusted. This is then contrasted with the wickedness of Macbeth when the Second Witch announces his entry with the line “Something wicked this way comes;” (4.1.45). This serves to accentuate the evilness of Macbeth. The audience now understands that the witches have successfully corrupted him into a murderous figure with no remorse and that he has now almost become a monster himself, as the audience truly fears the protagonist’s presence. Finally, the way in which Macbeth arrives at the witches’ lair with extraordinary boldness is also significant. He insults the witches instantly upon greeting them, describing them as “secret, black, and midnight hags” (4.1.47). When he “conjures” (4.1.49) the Witches to answer him, his language is also uncompromising. He matches their power with a curse of his own, demanding to receive an answer even if it requires the occurrence of a series of natural disasters, including “the yeasty waves/ Confound and swallow navigation up,” (4.1.52-53) and “the treasure/Of nature’s germen tumble altogether/ Even till destruction sicken:” (4.1.57-59). Macbeth’s language is another sign of the completion of his corruption. His demanding tone functions to express his wickedness and arrogance. He is almost presented as more powerful than the witches themselves, highlighting how he has truly been transformed into a cold-blooded killer who must be stopped.

In conclusion, William Shakespeare’s Macbeth, is a tragedy that explores various motifs, most notably the corrupting nature of the supernatural. During the play,

the audience follows Macbeth’s descent from a Scottish war hero to a killer, whose vaulting ambition pushes him to the point of madness, as his greed corrupts him into doing anything necessary to retain Scotland’s thrown. However, as the play develops, the audience is encouraged to feel sympathy for the protagonist, as they consider whether he is fully responsible for his actions. Shakespeare achieves this by revealing the corrupting nature of the supernatural, specifically through the characters of the witches, and the various hallucinations that haunt Macbeth throughout the play. The three witches are an authorial achievement on several levels: firstly, they function as a catalyst for Macbeth’s actions, aiming to exploit his hamartia, by revealing a set of prophecies that spark his ambition and coax him, with the help of Lady Macbeth, into murdering King Duncan, resulting in a chain of violent events which leads to his eventual downfall and decapitation. Furthermore, the witches serve to highlight the instability of the Scottish monarchy in the play, whilst also reminding the audience of the contextual belief that women were manipulative, often corrupted men and that they were not to be trusted. This view is also displayed through the character of Lady Macbeth, who, it could be argued, acts as a fourth witch in the play. Thirdly, it is likely that Shakespeare presented the metaphysical to please the newly crowned monarch King James I, for whom he wrote the play. James expressed an acute interest in the supernatural, even writing and publishing the book Daemonologie in 1597. Additionally, the series of guiltinspired hallucinations that Macbeth experiences throughout the play further add to the exploration of this central motif. The two most important of these visions, Act 2 Scene 1 and Act 3 Scene 4, both serve to demonstrate Macbeth’s descent into psychological madness, with the latter revealing Macbeth’s total loss of control, with Banquo’s ghost, arguably an embodiment of Macbeth’s guilt, firmly establishing to the audience his descent into utter insanity. The former, in which “a dagger of the mind” leads Macbeth to King Duncan’s chamber, initiates the chain of violence that is central to the play, as the metaphysical vision begins his corruption, manipulating him to make the decision that will ultimately lead to his demise. Overall, elements of the supernatural, especially visions and witches, are a driving force in the outcome of Shakespeare’s Macbeth, both helping to start and continue the chain of events that results in the protagonist’s eventual downfall. Through this, Shakespeare is able to display the corrupting nature of the supernatural to both terrify his audience, and intrigue the newly crowned King James I.

Carol Ann Duffy’s The World’s Wife is a witty, empowering, and progressive work published in 1999 during the 3rd feminist wave, produced to illuminate uncredited female figures; both fictional and historical. The poems are inspired by traditional stories of legendary male figures but are contemplated through the female perspective - predominantly written in the dramatic monologue form - revolving around themes of conflict in gender power dynamics, lust, love, oppression, but above all, femininity. In this essay I will explore how Duffy uses nature imagery to portray the resilience of women in her collection The World’s Wife, focussing specifically on ‘Little Red Cap’, ‘Pygmalion’s Bride’, ‘Penelope’, and ‘Demeter’. This selection presents an array of relationships that progress to display resilience – mental, physical, and emotional.

Duffy opens the collection with the striking dramatic monologue Little Red Cap, where nature imagery is implemented to portray the transition from childhood into adolescence, and the precarious balance between naivety and exploration during this crucial time in life. In this recreation of the traditional fairy tale, the extent of Little Red Cap’s consent is questioned during Duffy’s description of the journey to the wolf’s lair, a “dark tangled thorny place”, in which the girl’s clothes are “snagged on twig and branch”. This nature imagery uses a semantic field of violence, with the ominous woods slowly yet aggressively removing her clothing, acting as both a mode of deterrence, but also as a symbol of submission, revealing the girl’s persistence to follow her seducer. Duffy’s use of this liquid state of resistance, portrayed through the twigs and branches, suggests that despite Little Red Cap’s willingness, she is still young enough to be manipulated, oblivious to sexual danger. Her innocence is exemplified through the symbolism of the “living bird – white dove”, presenting purity and virginity. The context that Little Red Cap gifts the bird to the wolf represents an affirmation of her autonomy, but is also a metaphor for gifting her innocence, which is abruptly snatched and in “one bite, dead”. This metaphor reinstates the gender power imbalance, but as time passes the reader can view her resilience developing, specifically when Duffy displays her lashing out “I took an axe to a willow to see how it wept”. This violence towards nature reveals the trauma that she has accepted for her younger self, showing the symbolic influence of the wolf during her youth, and how he not only failed to take responsibility and refuse her advancements, but more importantly, how his

Natural imagery to portray women’s resilience in Duffy’s The World’s Wife

An IB essay by Tayisha F

violent traits have reflected onto her. Duffy’s resolution follows the graphic depiction of the wolf’s death, with the final line “Out of the forest I come with my flowers”, acknowledging Little Red Cap’s strength leading her to self-actualization. Despite everything, the image of flowers is applied to represent a revival of her freedom and innocence. Ultimately, Duffy shows that after years of abuse and oppression, there can be redemption for those who have suffered this cyclical gender power imbalance, and that a young girl can grow the strength to break free from oppressive, authoritative figures.

Pygmalion’s Bride, meanwhile, focuses on themes of sexual assault and power dynamics, ultimately revealing the strength of female power when linked to sexuality. First and foremost, the poem’s opening line states “Cold, I was, like snow, like ivory”, promptly informing the reader of the speaker’s unhuman, yet personified character. Duffy’s use of the colour white and of cold snow enforces ideas of virginity, but also Galatea’s lack of control over Pygmalion’s sexual advances. This portrays an objectified and oppressed woman, however, throughout the dramatic monologue we watch the speaker evolve and harbour power over Pygmalion; “I heard the sea. I drowned him out.” The sea image here can be read as an allusion to the Goddess Venus who is calling Galatea to capitulate, but Galatea defies her and finds her own power within the expansive sea. Pygmalion’s pathetic and powerless seduction techniques are epitomized through his shower of gifts, including “polished pebbles” and “pearls”. Yet, Galatea’s reference to these as “girly things”, and the use of plosive sounds, indicates her disgust; simultaneously trivializing and belittling his affection in the eyes of the reader. As Pygmalion’s desperation increases, so does Galatea’s power of insubordination. Besides narcissism, the true aggression and misogyny of the male sex is arguably the main theme here, which Duffy portrays through nature imagery in the line “He looked for marks… for inky stars”. This covert reference to bruises indicates that Galatea’s form of stone provides her with a powerful defence against him, and how she is able to use her attributes to protect herself. Equally, her resilience ultimately triumphs at the end of the monologue when she transforms into a “soft” and “pliable” human form, giving her the ability to escape. Utilizing her stereotypically feminine traits empowers Galatea to overturn her inferior position within the power dynamics. This piece of writing affirms the strength of women and their ability to overcome trauma.

Duffy also offers uplifting and positive dramatic monologues, significantly noticeable in Penelope, in which the speaker finds self-actualization through creativity; concluding that her husband is not the defining factor of her happiness. The title Penelope instantly identifies our protagonist - unlike Pygmalion’s Bride - and gives a prominent allusion to her independence. In this poem, nature imagery presents Penelope’s newfound passion – a mode for unleashing her growing sense of purpose and identity. Initially, Duffy describes her stitching a girl “under a single star”, which reflects the sense of anticipation, looking up to the sole light of her travelling lover. Furthermore, it signifies her blindness to the world around her – the only source of light is from her partner. As the stanza progresses there is additional detail intertwined with her sewing, describing the “greens for the grass”, “walnut brown”, and “smoky pink”, illuminating her growing obsession with her craft and presenting the freedom of the outdoors through earthy hues. Initially, sewing is a method of avoiding her suffering, however, as the dramatic monologue progresses there is a clear shift in perspective. Her commitment to sewing portrays her growing resilience, destroying expectations placed on women to be dependent on men and to be defined by their femininity; expected to only care for marriage and raising a family. When Duffy writes that the protagonist “watched him sail away into the loose gold stitching of the sun”, this is not an image of sadness, but one of closure and peace. The symbolism in the sun portrays the enlightenment Penelope feels, free from male subservience. The final example of nature imagery employed to solidify this motif is the sewing of a “river that would never reach the sea”, which arguably reinforces the new journey she is embarking on, differentiating from the norms. The imagery in the second half of the poem overall expresses higher degrees of beauty, and nature symbolism represents phenomena of a much larger scale, amounting to a revelation of something greater than both the patriarchal system and herself. Her resilience overcoming expectations has allowed Penelope to discover freedom and break away from the determinism enforced on women by men.

Finally, Demeter expresses the love between mother and daughter and provides insight to the resolute love within this bond. In the original story, Demeter’s daughter Persephone is taken to the underworld, and Duffy’s version works through Demeter’s resilience and

patience as she waits for her daughter to return. Initially nature imagery is used to create a semantic field of isolation such as “winter”, “hard earth” and “frozen lake” to promote Demeter’s dejection and heartache. There is an overwhelming sense of helplessness, and both mental and emotional suffering. Duffy applies pathetic fallacy to mirror Demeter’s emotions, illuminating the severity of her sadness, which seems almost irremediable. However, suddenly in the third stanza there is a hint of hope, which provokes a juxtaposition in the semantic fields created by nature imagery, and Duffy defines a clear contradiction between the first and second halves of the poem. Upon Persephone’s return, Duffy uses imagery including “spring’s flowers”, signifying new beginning and re-birth; “blue sky smiling”, to reiterate the new theme of light and joy, and the “small shy mouth of a new moon” as symbolism of the moon linked to a young girl’s femininity. These images represent the resilience of not only Demeter’s love, but also of her daughter who has persevered to

The Jester

by Tessa S (4th)

Maybe juggling is a form of storytelling too.

Maybe the court jester takes more pride in it than his jokes or dances or anything else.

Maybe he lives for the flourish of talent, to make it look easy, to hide his struggle.

I think he likes juggling because it’s the moment when nobody is laughing at his troubles.

The second souls are no longer scorning him, demeaning him, and making him a joke.

When he juggles, he has a skill;

When he juggles, he feels like he might for once have an iron will;

When he juggles, he is impressive, not just funny.

To be laughed at is his duty, to never hear laughter again is his dream.

As scratchy fabric exfoliates his skin

And bells continue to ring.

Would they just cease to ring, for a moment of peace for him.

But with every step, he perpetuates his own eternal suffering.

With each object he adds to the cycle; he pulls forward another moment of his life.

Another memory not a soul will understand, another scar of strife.

return home, reuniting this most positive and beautiful bond. Although contrasting in tone to the other poems in the collection, Demeter is particularly significant for feminism to exemplify that not all love surrounding women is sexual, as they are capable of broad and vast forms of love.

In conclusion, Duffy successfully exhibits numerous relationships and dynamics to represent the strength and diversity of female resilience, demonstrated through reinstatement of control, surmounting trauma, defying patriarchal norms, and unrelenting love that is capable of overpowering all obstacles. The self-actualization which arguably applies to all four characters supports Duffy’s feminist motives and enlightens the reader to a perhaps darker, but nonetheless crucial perspective on the hidden female figures behind each great story, and the strength they have applied to achieve their goals.

He drags them from the pits of his consciousness and twists them into humour.

He chuckles and smiles and makes them all forget their inevitable doom.

He watches, waits and hides up high until they’re in need of laughter.

So he can live in flamboyance and tomfoolery and then crawl away after.

But none of that is to happen now, for the jester is still juggling.

He tosses and hides in eternal fear that they will notice he’s struggling.

As the balls and bags and bowls soar through the air, And the glasses catch the light from the palace chandelier.

As the jester is juggling, there is silence all around. Mouths aren’t smiling but held open in renown.

The jester can smile without the pantomime. And smile he does with a starlike shine.

For the jester can get a laugh from a silly walk or the way he talks

But when he juggles for me or you.

That is Jester telling his oldest story and we watch as if it were new.