Wednesday 23 March 2011



INHERITANCE NEWS!

Book 4 of Christopher Paolini's Inheritance Cycle will be released on November 8 this year, entitled INHERITANCE as the last book in the series, it was only announced today! The cover has also been released

Really though it's about time! The last book came out in 2008 or something ridiculous like that and there's been so many rumours. I'm very glad it's all cleared up now and we have something to go on and look forward to. It's a shame because a lot of fans have 'grown up' now, if such a term can be applied to literature, and have grown less and less enthusiastic about the final book. I felt like that for a while, I gave up hope and stopped checking in on the site for updates, until I saw this on facebook and exploded. Paolini is like Patrick Rothfuss, I think; an absolute perfectionist, and actually that's not a bad trait at all when it comes to writing a novel - I hope that Rothfuss will update us on The Name of the Wind's sequel soon, I'm just as excited about that one too. Today is a happy day. 



Sunday 20 March 2011

I have the power in my mind to split my forearms lengthways, spill out any last litres of repulsion, and draw on the stenches. I'll turn to the pharmaceutical cabinet with a large glass of wine, swallow fifty dry and two hundred with a quenched throat, after the bath is drawn. And slipping into the water I'll think about the faces, feel the heavy roll of intoxication under a smother of convulsions, and realise in one mighty wave that I have finally found peace.



Wednesday 16 March 2011

‎"In order to form an immaculate member of a flock of sheep one must, above all, be a sheep." 


- Albert Einstein
‎"We are not "believers", we bow the knee neither to Reclus, nor to Kropotkin. We debate their ideas, accepting them when they elicit fellow-feeling in our minds, but rejecting them when they evoke no response from us."

 - Émile Henry

Sunday 13 March 2011

"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation." 
- Oscar Wilde

Thursday 10 March 2011

"There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so." 
- Shakespeare
Round like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending on beginning
On an ever-spinning reel
Like a snowball down a mountain
Or a carnival balloon
Like a carousel that's turning
Running rings around the moon
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes on its face
And the world is like an apple
Whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind

Like a tunnel that you follow
To a tunnel of its own
Down a hollow to a cavern
Where the sun has never shone
Like a door that keeps revolving
In a half-forgotten dream
Or the ripples from a pebble
Someone tosses in a stream
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes on its face
And the world is like an apple
Whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind

Keys that jingle in your pocket
Words that jangle in your head
Why did summer go so quickly?
Was it something that I said?
Lovers walk along a shore
And leave their footprints in the sand
Was the sound of distant drumming
Just the fingers of your hand?
Pictures hanging in a hallway
Or the fragment of a song
Half-remembered names and faces
But to whom do they belong?
When you knew that it was over
Were you suddenly aware
That the autumn leaves were turning
To the color of her hair?

Like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning
On an ever-spinning reel
As the images unwind
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind
'The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.'

- Stop The Clocks, W.H.Auden

Wednesday 9 March 2011







Golden head by golden head,
Like two pigeons in one nest
Folded in each other's wings,
They lay down, in their curtained bed:
Like two blossoms on one stem,
Like two flakes of new-fallen snow,
Like two wands of ivory
Tipped with gold for awful kings.
Moon and stars beamed in at them,
Wind sang to them lullaby,
Lumbering owls forbore to fly,
Not a bat flapped to and fro
Round their rest:
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast
Locked together in one nest.


- Rossetti's 'Goblin Market', a snipet
A pointless argument you don't need to read. 


Goblin Market is considered one of Christina Rossetti’s most accomplished works, an expression of her views on society, politics and feminism, to name a few. Whether her poem is a cautionary tale has remained a controversial matter for many years, and critics express many, many different interpretations of it. It could be that this was what Rossetti had intended, and that it is each individual’s take on the poem as a whole that is the most significant. She reaches out to readers throughout Goblin Market, physically luring us in so that we, like Lizzie and Laura, are captivated by the goblins; she holds us in a trance through the duration of the poem, the rhythm almost like a heartbeat, fast paced and quick – mirroring the movements and actions of the goblin men so that we are surrounded by her images, the colours she uses. It is only when we take a breath at the end of each stanza that we can allow ourselves to look back and reflect on the true meanings of Goblin Market; in this sense the tale could be cautionary for children, as they learn from it not to trust strange men, and to also love and stand by the ones you love, because to children’s eyes there is no other meaning, no other danger or sinister discomfort behind Rossetti’s words.

Rossetti begins her poem Goblin Market by creating a stanza which is filled with persuasive language; she lists the fruits, along with their origins and colours, emphasizing the taste and texture of them ‘Bloom-down-cheeked peaches’ tempting the readers, luring us into her poem, much the same way as the goblins do when they entice the young girls.  The enjambed sentences in this stanza make the reader feel as though they cannot tear their eyes away until they have reached the end, another reflection on the way the goblins tempt people with their fruits and cries. If you notice the colours of the fruits ‘dewberries’, ‘strawberries’, ‘barberries’ and ‘crab apples’, you find that the majority of the fruits are greens and reds, both contrasting colours; an example of juxtaposition. The idea of double-meaning behind Goblin Market is mirrored in her use of colours and imagery; behind the goblin’s cries, and the beautiful fruits, there is something much more sinister and this use of language continues throughout Rossetti’s poem. The list of fruit and internal rhyme such as ‘Rare pears’ make their offerings seem delicate and precious which again emphasizes the idea of temptation, and luring people in. You could even go so far as to say that Rossetti is hinting at appearances, and how beneath the beauty, the facades that society holds in place, the much practiced stances and manners, there is something irresistible and dangerous.

There are a vast amount of critics interpretations of Goblin Market, not least of all Rossetti’s poem being a reflection on Victorian society, allusions to Adam and Eve, forbidden fruits, Christianity, temptation and drug addiction, amongst others. I believe one of the most popular ideas is women’s temptation of men in Victorian society; in this case, the goblins would represent the men. This idea is even confirmed at the end  and beginning of Goblin Market, At last the evil people’, ‘Curious Laura chose to linger, wondering at each merchant man’ two lines describing the goblins as human, though the first not specifically referring to men - as they ‘run’ away from Lizzie. With this in mind it is easier to view Rossetti’s poem as a cautionary tale, though not necessarily for children. Throughout Goblin Market we come across a range of different language used in order to convey some kind of warning, in some cases not related to the tale at all. ‘Who knows upon what soil they fed their hungry thirsty roots’ is a line spoken by Laura as she warns Lizzie not to look at goblin men, it could be read as a metaphor for men’s sexual motivation, as the language throughout Rossetti’s poem is purposefully erotic, and the roots of men’s  incentive. If this is the case then Goblin Market could be considered an extended metaphor for men, how they lure women in with their charms and looks; lines such as ‘One whisked a tail’ and ‘One prowled obtuse and furry’ are animalistic qualities, as though describing the nature of men as individuals, each like their own animal. Particularly the use of ‘a voice like voice of doves’ and ‘They sounded kind and full of loves’ emphasize the more sinister aspects of these goblins; doves ‘coo’, a sound which is harmonious but also eerily beautiful, and the use of ‘sounded’ implies the goblins are not completely what they seem.

As far as cautionary tales go, there is an example of three lines in Goblin Market which sound curiously like an old saying: ‘Twilight is not good for maidens; should not loiter in the glen in the haunts of goblin men’ which in itself is a caution to young girls and unmarried young women, but it also sounds as though it would have been derived from a contemporary source, perhaps in Victorian society as a caution for young girls not to trust men. These ideas, the interpretations of the poem, are suppressed beneath the child-like structure and rhyme, the repetition of ‘Come buy! Come buy!’ and also some of the language; many aspects of the poem are exciting, the colours are vibrant, the imagery is beautiful, the fruits are tempting and the lists are persuasive; Rossetti uses sound in to convey the goblins as they move, and includes plosive and sibilant language in order to emphasize the actions of the characters, ‘plucked from bower’ and ‘pined and pined’ as well as ‘sugar-sweet their sap’. Including this language in her poem makes it seem child-like, intriguing, like a fairytale, but like most fairytales there are underlying meanings behind the stanza’s, most of which are uncomfortable when revealed. It is controversial whether Rossetti intended Goblin Market to be a reflection on something other than goblins and little girls, but her use of language and the possible metaphors which could relate to other things are undeniable.

There is also the idea that the characters of Lizzie and Laura are representative of a more psychological outlook on Rossetti’s poem; light and dark, good and bad, tainted and untainted. It could be that it is one woman’s silent battle against the temptations of men, against conforming to a society that would shunt any woman guilty of ‘sinning’ or temptation away; a woman’s conflict over a drug addiction, or how she is psychologically damaged. This idea comes from Rossetti’s biography – a volunteer worker at the St. Mary Magdalene ‘house of charity’ which was a refuge for former prostitutes. Rossetti would have experienced, witnessed, women who had been physically and mentally scarred by their pasts – their encounters. ‘With clasping arms and cautioning lips’, ‘golden head by golden head’ and especially ‘like two blossoms on one stem’ portray the two girls as being extremely close to each other, again suggesting that they are two aspects of one mind. The conflict with each other ‘Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie’ and ‘No, no, no’ is mimicked through the disparate actions of the two sisters. I considered this idea because, if this poem were to refer to women in Victorian society, the ending would be unrealistic; a woman’s reputation would be completely ruined if she were to be guilty of Laura’s actions, and yet the end of Goblin Market is idealistic – they are older, married, with children, happy. The idea of the story being a feature of a woman’s mind could show how desperately she wants that as a future and that she tries to overcome her own destruction by gaining the strength she has left – which Lizzie is symbolic of – and facing what she fears the most in order to be forgiven for her ‘sin’, or something of the like.

Rossetti also refers to the role of women in Victorian society ‘Laura rose with Lizzie; fetched milk and honey, milked the cows. Aired and set right to the house’ and ‘Talked as modest maidens should’ combined with ‘Laura in an absent dream’ could refer to the way of life women were expected to follow, the responsibilities and reputation they had to build and endure, and how Laura is tempted by other things, by dreams, wishing for something that would never be acceptable in such a society. This hints at the right of women, and how Rossetti perhaps opposes this. There is also a great deal of sexual imagery and language throughout Goblin Market such as the use of ‘Plump, unpicked cherries’ and ‘Cherries worth getting’ perhaps symbolising purity and virginity, and also ‘Pomegranates, full and fine’ and ‘Figs to fill your mouth’ which are both sexualised fruits, especially ‘figs’ in Rossetti’s time. There are so many references to female sexuality, women being submissive to men, and so on, that it cannot be a coincidence, and to have such an explicit poem would mean Rossetti must have had other intentions whilst writing this poem; some kind of message is being conveyed through the stanzas. Another reference to facades is ‘She heard the tramp of goblin men’, it seems that throughout the poem Lizzie is not tempted by the goblins because she doesn’t look at them, just like young women were taught by their nurses or even mothers about men but never experienced them until they married. When they do look upon them they become enticing, intriguing and their appearances and what they offer – again, symbolized by the fruits – are alluring.

There is also an evident sense of women and their morality; when Lizzie is faced by the goblins, sacrificing herself for her sister in order to find Laura the ‘antidote’, she shows extreme courage and strength, and belief in her love for her sister. The goblins taunt her, they mock her and tempt her and then physically harm her. All through this Lizzie stands ‘White and golden like a lily in a flood, like a rock of blue-veined stone’. This area is so important in the poem that Rossetti goes on to write six similes in order to describe Lizzie’s strengths and her purity. ‘Blue-veined stone’ is vaguely oxymoronic in the sense that it shows something delicate, ‘blue-veined’, conveying the beauty of Lizzie – her skin is so pale and clear you can see her veins – against something solid and sturdy such as a stone. The references to ‘lily in a flood’ could symbolize the element of water, one of nature’s most powerful sources; by standing her ground she becomes a symbol of hope. This stanza is entirely made up of similes that convey purity and honour, sacrifice and strength. For women living in the Victorian era this would be extremely encouraging. There is evident allegory here too, in the two stanzas, from line 380 to 423; there is a meaning beneath the words that unearth the idea of women’s moralities; to be polite but firm. Lizzie is a symbol of this, her words becoming mono-syllabic ‘Give me back my silver penny’ which shows she won’t be persuaded but she is still sure and certain, she isn’t rude to the goblins but she stands her ground. This could be a reflection on what Rossetti believes a woman’s role could or should be in society.

Whether Rossetti’s poem was meant to be a cautionary tale for just children alone is controversial, but there is a vast amount of evidence throughout the text which suggests otherwise. I believe this poem is a cautionary tale but for women in general and not just for children; through use of sexual imagery and references, persuasive language and extended metaphors – such as the ‘thirsty roots’ of a man’s motivation – amongst many other rich and intertwined aspects of the play, we must consider Goblin Market to be allegorical. There is a great amount of symbolism throughout Rossetti’s poem, some of which we cannot ignore. She manages to create both beautiful and unnerving atmosphere’s, ‘Chattering like magpies, fluttering like pigeons’ in order to physically draw the readers into her poem, she reaches out to every possible audience through her use of similes. It is this idea that brings me to believe Goblin Market has many underlying meanings, and that it is for us, as individual readers, to interpret how we see fit. 

"Think as I think," said a man,
"Or you are abominably wicked;
You are a toad.
"

And after I had thought of it,
I said, "I will, then, be a toad."

- Stephen Crane
A name and complication; an act of undue intimacy, political independence, a shelter from personal servitude, confinement and oppression. You are a burning field; raging and tormented; as delicate and sweeping as a spring web - with an angry spit of distaste, I hate you. 


Monday 7 March 2011

This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
And nestlings fly
-          Thomas Hardy, Weathers


A critical analysis of Brontë’s The Prisoner, employing feminist criticism and problematizing the practise of literary criticism. (Because I'm a sucker for her work) 


Emily Brontë wrote The Prisoner as either a literal or figurative poem; critics explore their individual interpretations, and that of others, in order to find the intentional fallacy of the author. Through these interpretations we can access what is believed to be the subconscious of the poet, using psychoanalysis and historical context of both Emily Brontë’s past and the era in which she lived. However, the reader will always contextualise the poem unintentionally, making it profoundly difficult to unearth Brontë’s true intentions and bringing to the poem and essence of themselves. It could be that she did not intend anything other than a literal approach to The Prisoner, or that it is a direct reflection on the treatment of women in Victorian England, and of patriarchy. Similarly, it is possible that she wrote it as a literal poem, unaware that she was subconsciously expressing her inner anguish and metaphorical imprisonment.


As a literal approach to Brontë’s The Prisoner, it is clear that she speaks of incarceration, and a fierce dignity that prevents the imprisoned from weakening under the ‘desolate despair’ of their confines; lines such as, ‘Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less’ underline this notion of hope, and of strength. The poem, addressing limitation, or rather the constraints of reality, and the agonising need for freedom, expresses ecstasy in the idea of self-strength and hope which the character yearns for. It could be that the prisoner is slipping into a state of delirium, whether from pain or time or ‘year after year in gloom’, which would push anyone to the brinks of insanity, through which they find solace in their own mind where reality fails them ‘My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels’. In this case, ‘Hope’ could be representative of the prisoner’s imagination, where the idea of their eventual freedom is strong enough to withstand the pain of imprisonment. There is a sense of scale within the poem, ‘measuring the gulf’ to signify the prisoner’s leap between struggling against captivity and allowing desire to consume them, which is followed by ‘It stoops and dares the final bound’ highlighting the dawning of ‘the Invisible’ and the strength of Brontë’s prisoner.

The Prisoner, in a different light, can be seen as a figurative exploration of the position of women in Victorian society, by which the prisoner becomes a woman entrenched in a century of constraint and repression. In this era, women had to lead duplicitous lives; facades and concealment meant that they could hide behind false identities that secured their reputation and status within society, and within their home. Their true temperament was to remain a secret untold. Emily Brontë’s The Prisoner could speak of this restraint, ‘The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain’, and of repressed female aspiration; limitations on the potential of women, and of dreams. The lilt of Brontë’s poem exposes the disparity of desire and rationality, expressed through lines such as ‘a soundless calm descends; the struggle of distress, and fierce impatience ends’, which could address the notion of freeing yourself from social, or patriarchal, and domestic restraint. Moreover, ‘When the pulse begins to throb, the brain to think again’ suggests that the liberation of allowing yourself to feel, think, and finally breathe without the pressures of conformity ‘year after year in gloom, and desolate despair’, will be in a clarity worth the consequence. Brontë’s poem reflects on the clarity gained through unburdening ones self from social expectation, disregarding the ‘importance’ of reputable status and allowing raw emotion to conquer rationality, ‘my outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels’. The ‘prisoner’, in this case, is clearly symbolic of women, while the prison is representative of Victorian society; the poet creates a character that is enclosed not only in a physical incarceration, but also within the confines of her own mind, in order to show the vulnerability of women in Brontë’s time. 

While this idea is plausible, it is needless to say that our individual interpretations bring elements to the poem that Brontë may not have been aware of herself; The Prisoner might have been intended as literal rather than  figurative, a deeply concealed and neglected anguish. Similarly, Brontë may have insinuated an entirely different approach, where ‘A messenger of Hope comes every night to me... He comes with western wings’ is actually symbolic of religious hope, or ‘that kill me with desire’ of an affair. Symbolism, and in fact meaning, is given through the reader, who contextualises it by incorporating their own idea of historical and cultural understanding to the poem; any aspect of the poem that we, as individuals, can relate to on a conscious or subliminal level, automatically alters our perspective of its meaning; we relate and reminisce over it, producing memories of times we have felt similar pain, or love, and so on, whilst at the same time inducing historical references that we associate with the poet, or the poet’s era. Our perspective, so altered, means that the author’s intentional fallacy is difficult, if not impossible, to distinguish. ‘A messenger of Hope’, could represent the prisoner’s dreams and aspirations, a woman’s chance of freedom in a patriarchal society, or a person, thought or object that induces optimism. These theories oppose each other; ‘He comes with western winds, with that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars’, in a feminist light - as a metaphor for women overcoming the repression of society and men, ‘Still let my tyrants know’ – is contradicted by the use of ‘He’ representing the ‘Hope’ and liberty, which suggests the poem takes on a highly religious tone.  We use these interpretations in order to access the mind of the poet; a key to their subconscious thought.

With Brontë’s history in mind, her childhood and the influence of her sisters, it is easy to see why criticism of The Prisoner is often in light of feminism, as a reflection on Victorian women cannot be disregarded completely as her intended meaning. Likewise, the poem could speak of repression in its most general form, so that it speaks to anyone who can relate to the feeling of being repressed, and the unyielding refusal to give in. Though, without empirical evidence, the significance of Emily Brontë’s poem, and that of all her work, will remain an obscurity critics can only hope to unveil; we are left to tread blindly into the storms of an incredible imaginative scope.
I'm in a pissy mood. 
Okay. What would you class as ‘emblematic’? Something similar to a lot of other things; a thesaurus says characteristic, archetypal and distinctive, all of which I’m fond of, as far as sounding goes, but none of which I’m familiar with. I suppose it means ‘usual’, to some extent, plainly, or just representative of a certain genre of things; that must make me typical. So I am a typical individual; juxtaposed, clearly, and a seemingly profound mess of useless, and ridiculously time consuming, deliberation that isn’t going anywhere nice.
We are such stuff, as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep

Shakespeare, The Tempest

Demoralised, literally

Do you want to read some airy nonsense? Some Bronte-esque escapism?

It's all just a painful mass of burning ire; I feel I am nothing but an entity of something. My skin encases one magnificent deluge of fury, and of confusion. Haven’t these words been written before?
When you sink into an all-consuming couch, psychologically oppressed by the ugly huffing and emulous snifflings, as Ted so delicately put, of moronic twats, the only thought to surface from this extensive void of mentality, in which humanity astutely named our Conscious, is ‘Christ, he has hairs sprouting from his nose’ and the agonising need to understand existence, for fear of descending into clinical insanity.
It begins much the same way: life goes on, colourfully denying all rights of privacy, of solitude and possibly our actual want of it, or maybe it isn’t life that perseveres so vehemently, but rather language. Language, the tool of the human race, one which is maltreated; its entrails and organs wrenched, piled into glistening towers of a large discarded carcass, and letters that wouldn’t mean a thing to an 18th century rector, let alone whoever’s ingenious idea it was to discover the art of communication.
It’s at this moment in time when, after analysing the situation and coming to the conclusion that yes, somehow you’ve managed to bypass insanity, you realise ‘life’ is a cadaver intended for dissection; a metaphorical something that is too extended to get our heads around. We reside on the shores of our own subconscious, acutely aware of an ever expansive landscape that flickers in and out of mundane vision.



'Just'

Every aspect of the word, and its intricate web of relativities, refuses to aid the ones I am itching to use; diction simply isn't good enough! I've got a feral gnawing in my gut, an agitated defiance that I have to unwillingly stifle and opress. Fuck; words cannot articulate - self indulge, even - in the depths of their own understanding, to surface some exquisite adjective that will enable me to describe this. I never truly understood the word feast as I do in this moment; I never fully appreciated the implications that run, like rivers, through thirst. I had no idea that I could know what it is for my eyes to literally feast, and quench their thirst, on the purest of beauty - I am not sorely lacking. I saw beauty in it’s realist form, and I am taken by it.
Shiny new parenthesis
I like the word divulge. It has all the thick convulses of tongue I want in a word.
You know you're insane when

You’re sat there wondering whether a supraesophageal ganglion is similar to human nerve cells - actually, if we have them at all and you just weren’t aware of it. And who discovered that flies have three ganglia which fuse together to form something like a brain - Why? And what that means for life. Then, obliterating what little sanity was left, why mosquitos have 7 abdominal segments, rather than an even 6 or 8 - which leaves all kinds of questions about everthing.  



So the things that are here to make us feel just that little bit better will be the death of us, as we over indulge ourselves in a sick and metaphorical ecstasy
We delude ourselves every day into believing our actions mean something, that we, as a race, truly mean something. Life is not a journey, life doesn’t matter at all; we are a trace aspect of a monstrous universe, a universe of rage where stars live off and devour each other as cannibals.  



'And sat upright. While drearisome
Arose the howl of wakened hounds:
The mouse let fall the alter-crumb,
The worms drew back into the mounds.'
Alienation; I have lost my passion for stories, overwhelmed by the imagination of other authors, my mind is a shell filled with plagiarised ideas that I like to consider my own. I tell myself, surely there isn’t one author out there, dead or alive, that hasn't been influenced by another writer’s work, which sounds convincing enough – it is a lie I repeat every time I touch a keyboard, or open a document. In truth I am devoid of imagination, and of originality - yes, originality, for if such a thing doesn’t exist then there wouldn’t be a word for it – which pains me to no end.
We do not discern those eyes
Watching in the snow
-          Thomas Hardy, The Fallow Deer at the Lonely House
Illness festers; it churns beneath a great yawning chasm. It cannot be felt, because of an indifference to all emotion. To think that you turn your shoulder willingly is denial – it isn’t that you won’t feel, it is that you can’t; there grows a dull, all-consuming ache of an indefinable nothing. It feels much like delirium, with a light awareness of reality. Illness is like having a figurative cord restrict your lungs, whilst firmly believing it is really there; it affects you physically, psychologically and socially. You drown in it, you allow it to suffocate your mind and body; it feeds on the chemicals and cells we naturally produce, it wounds energy resources and rational thought until you are slave to the ache of it. The desire to self-inflict pain is like a steadfast hound mid-hunt, and beneath all of this is an unyielding truth: that you are not required, needed or wanted at all. 
And strange-eyed constellations reigned his stars eternally
- Thomas Hardy, The Dead Drummer