Castaway: Mr Sanders The Age of Innocence
by Edith Wharton
Bleak House
by Charles Dickens
In the Heart of the Sea
by Nathanial Philbrick
Writers on Autumn…
“Every leaf speaks bliss to me,
fluttering from the autumn tree”
Emily Bronte
“And all at once, summer collapsed into fall” Oscar Wilde
“Listen! The wind is rising, and the
air is wild with leaves, we have
had our summer evenings: now
for October eves!” Humbert
“I enjoy reading ripping yarns about
heightened emotions and my top three
choices reflect this. The Age of Innocence is a work of exquisite prose and
immense sensibility while Bleak House
is Dickens at his best—dark, murky and
thoroughly engrossing. In the Heart of
the Sea is elemental and tells the story
of an unbelievable endeavour—and yet
it’s true.
I’d be really disappointed though, if
I could only have three books! I’d also
like to take The Return of the Native by
Thomas Hardy, The Book of Illusions by
Paul Auster, The Great Gatsby by F
Scott Fitzgerald, Waterland by Graham
Swift and The Remains of the Day by
Kazuo Ishiguro.” Mr Sanders Wolfe
Issue 1 contributors
“I’m so glad I live in a world
where there are Octobers.” L.M.
Something to say?
Anisha Badhan, Eva Bywater, Sophie
Clare, Trystan Coveney, Paddy Hardman, Priyanka Kotak, Ivor Luffman, Ritika
Roy, Will Smith, Lilys Templeman,
Miriam Templeman, Phoebe Templeman,
Grace Thornton. Georgie Williams, Iona
Wilson
To contribute, comment or offer help, email
[email protected]
Artwork: Susannah Bolton, Jace Woodworth
We’d particularly like to see any work on a Gothic
theme for the next issue.
Editorial: Jane Chumbley, Ritika Roy
Montgomery
Issue 1
Issue 1
September 2016
From the Editors
Love Welcome to the very first issue of The Scribbler, a
new literary magazine showcasing the creative
and critical genius of BMS students. This first issue gives a wider audience to some of the fine
verse produced by our younger students in response to the House Poetry Competition this
summer. You will also enjoy narrative and descriptive writing, alongside critical commentary on
literary texts and some lighter engagement with
the ideas of great writers.
The Scribbler is produced by students—we have
an editorial team and a group of artists providing
graphics. If you would like to get involved in any
way, let us know—see the back page for our contact details. Better still, if you have some work
you’d like to see published, send it in. We will be
commissioning specific pieces but we will always
be glad to consider unsolicited work.
Love looks not with the
eyes, but with the mind, And therefore love will
always be blind. It doesn’t matter how this
poem starts, Because by the end,
despite what I do, It will always be about
you. I dreamt about you, Romanticised by my
broken heart, I dreamt about the taste
of your lips And your hands resting
on my hips. Enjoy!
The Editors
You were strong coffee
and sunshine, And how I longed for you
to be mine. We were lovers in every
way, And so much to you, I
had to say, I burnt out all the stars, And showed you my
scars. But you were playing
with matches, And I had a paper heart. You sent lightning through my veins, And my heart burst into flames. We were just kids in love, Now I’m the violence in the pouring rain, Now I’m a hurricane. Eva Bywater That is the truth, like it or not
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.
That is the truth, like it or not.
I hear you looking at me
and stating all you can see
‘No-one will love you, like it or not’.
What’s wrong with me?
Is it the way I stand, with a turbulent twitch in one
leg
in a queue, in front of you
waiting for something unimportant?
What’s wrong with me?
Is it the look of my face, with a crooked, crippled
nose
that will not move, and when I move
sticks out in the wrong direction?
What’s wrong with me?
Is it the wear of my clothes, with a sorry stitch
here and there
that will come undone, when I walk or run
and need re-stitching again?
I am stuck with these things, like it or not
But I do not mind them and love does not mind
them
yet you mind it, don’t you?
I am a king of love.
And I am at the front of the queue.
When I go home I will receive open arms and
open hearts
And love will come pouring out,
They do not care about what they can see
Just about what’s inside me.
You can be a queen if you like
But you must forget your friendly hate
For love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind
That is the truth, like it or
not.
Ivor Luffman
Bottom of the Class
All the world’s a stage,
the greatest theatre, a classroom.
The most entertaining show.
Each day is full of comedy and tragedy.
The curtain rises at 8:40 sharp,
the director gives the cue,
the players enter.
The fool, Feste, strolls in,
Romeo and Juliet,
the lovers, next,
then the scheming villain, Lady Macbeth,
and Bottom bringing up the rear.
They all play their own part,
everyone with a different story,
everyone with a different ending.
The bows come at 4 o’clock.
The exit music starts to play.
And the Bard begins to write a new script
for tomorrow.
Phoebe Templeman
one of dignity and respect. The rhyme scheme in
which one speaks the first line of the rhyming couplet and the other completes it suggests the natural harmony between them:
J: Saints do not move, though grant for prayers sake.
R: Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take.
They are each able to develop the extended metaphor of a pilgrim journeying and worshipping at a
shrine which is suggestive of the profound nature
of their feelings. Juliet, in granting Romeos prayer
allows him to kiss her - an image of beauty and
tenderness. Later on in the play, Romeo and Juliet
are prepared to sacrifice all for each other. Their
relationship is unconventional and goes against
the customs of an arranged marriage in a patriarchal society where it is perfectly acceptable for a
father to treat his daughter as his property, issuing ‘decrees’ and verbal abuse, while threatening
physical abuse and announcing that he ‘will give
(her) to (his) friend’, regardless of her feelings.
Shakespeare uses imagery to present the
relationship between the sexes. Juliet is not concerned with the conventions of courtship, and
even claims the right to propose marriage, organising the practicalities and emphasising all she
will give to Romeo:
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love is as deep: the more i give to thee
The more I have, for both are infinite.
Lucifer’s Script All the world’s a stage of pitiless rage, For the amusement of devils below, Your life a brief story, read off a page, Your future predetermined long ago. The actors may laugh, the actors may cry, But when their character reaches the end, They watch themselves rise to where the stars lie, The actors then know that all was pretend. Life is a game that you can only lose, But if you learn just one thing from this verse, No matter which measly costume you choose, Whether you deem it a blessing or curse, If you have cheated, killed, stolen or lied, I will be waiting on the other side. Paddy Hardman The powerful elemental image of the sea depicts
the strength, depth and permanence of her attachment. This image of the infinite and the continual regeneration of love is a notable contrast to
Lady Capulet’s uninspiring, shallow and constricting book image. Unlike Lady Capulet, Juliet emphasises giving not getting:
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay
And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world.
The alliteration, simplicity of the diction and harmonious vowel sounds create a direct poetic
beauty, and are like the Christian marriage service which presents an ideal union, with an emphasis on respect. Shakespeare is idealising the
relationship between Romeo and Juliet over the
current ideas of how relationships should be, with
the marriages arranged for wealth and status,
and women regarded as commodities to be
bought and sold.
Through use of contrast, Shakespeare implies the relationship between the sexes should
be of equality and respect, subverting current ideas and using Romeo and Juliet as the exemplar
relationship of what love should be like. This relationship is a union which transforms their social
world and brings an end to the feud.
Literary terms
ELEGY: a lamentation for the dead (modern
literature); a poem written in elegiac metre,
mainly used in solemn poetry (Greek and Roman Literature). Examples would include Tennyson’s ‘In Memoriam’ and Gray’s ‘Elegy Written in a Church Courtyard’
Shakespeare
In this IGCSE coursework essay Trystan Coveney
explores some challenging ideas behind one of
the best known and loved romantic stories.
How does Shakespeare present the relationship
between men and women in Romeo and Juliet?
In Romeo and Juliet Shakespeare uses relations
between the sexes to present ideas concerning
feuding and reconciliation, love and hatred in a
world dominated by violence, self-interest and materialism.
From the very first scene Shakespeare presents Sampson and Gregory as characters who
lack respect for women, fantasising about raping
the women of the opposing house and they reflect
the typical ideas men had towards women during
this time period. Shakespeare presents ideas concerning unwholesome gender relations through
his use of double entendre. Sampson threatens to
cut off “the heads of the maids or their maidenheads” when boasting about fighting members of
the Montague household. This coarse imagery
equates sex with violence and is part of the ongoing feud between the Montagues and Capulets.
Taking the virginity of the women ‘belonging’ to
your enemies is presented as being similar to looting their property. It could be argued that the reason that Tybalt is so incensed with Romeo’s presence at the Capulet party and consequently full of
vindictive tendencies is that Romeo is there looking at ‘his’ (Tybalt’s) Capulet women. Sampson
even calls his ‘sword’ a “naked weapon”. This presents women as goods to be pillaged as a way to
assert dominance and power in society, with sex
being used as a weapon in a time of conflict. The
language is vulgar and degrading ,especially from
a modern perspective and would be accompanied
dramatically by obscene gestures, escalating into
physical violence which is later contrasted to the
respectful relations enjoyed by Romeo and Juliet.
For example, by contrast, it is significant that
when Juliet speaks of losing her virginity to Romeo on her wedding night, she does so in terms
of great beauty and tenderness in an epithalamium full of cosmic imagery to depict the depth of
her longing and the intensity of a physical and
spiritual union:
Come civil night thou sober-suited matron all in black
And learn me how to win a losing match
Played for a pair of stainless maidenhoods.
The language is full of original and intelligent
wordplay- both she and Romeo will have lost virginity but will have won a metaphorical ‘mansion
of a love’ a metaphor which presents power and
security - Juliet’s presentation of her relationship
with Romeo is about both giving and receiving.
The words ‘pair’ and ‘match’ emphasise the equality of their relationship - the sexual act is not one
of violence or exploitation. Rather, it is something
Juliet must learn to ‘play’ in a comforting darkness.
Furthermore, Shakespeare uses repetition
and metaphors to present the relationship between the sexes. Through Lady Capulet, marriage
is presented as a means to social and economic
advancement. On telling Juliet she may be married to Paris, her description of Paris is significant
- no mention of love is made and the emphasis is
placed on what Juliet will get out of the marriage
in purely material terms. Paris and his potential
relationship with Juliet is presented in a cold artificial metaphor, full of innuendo which suggests
that Lady Capulet may be attracted to Paris herself: an interpretation presented in many film and
stage productions. Paris is described by lady Capulet as ‘this precious book of love, this unbound
lover /To beautify him only lacks a cover.’ This
insinuates Paris’ phallic member is a “book of
love” which “lacks a cover” which is to be Juliet.
The marriage will create a pleasing surface - Juliet
and Paris will be a perfect pair - a book and its
accessory, the cover. This book’s’ ‘gold clasps
locks in the golden story’ - the emphasis on “gold
clasps” and ‘locks’ in a story signifies lack of
spontaneity and imprisonment. Lady Capulet’s
emphasis on “gold” presents marriage as something to further wealth rather than to cement the
relationship of two people who are in love. The
fact that the ‘golden story’ is already written suggests the marriage and Juliet’s future is contrived. The rhyme scheme is appropriately facile ‘lover’ rhymes with ‘cover’ to link the two ideas,
and is as superficial and cliched as Lady Capulet’s attitude to marital relations between the sexes. By contrast the relationship between Romeo
and Juliet based on an unconventional equality
between the sexes is presented through the thematic imagery as a source of light in a dark world
of cruelty and coercion which reconciles the feuding families.
Lady Capulet’s artificial metaphor is contrasted with Romeo and Juliet’s elemental and
religious imagery. When Romeo and Juliet first
meet, the fact that their attitude towards each other is spiritual as well physical is shown by the fact
that they share a sonnet, each having a similar
number of lines. A sonnet has a strict form and
rhyme scheme and it suggests their relationship is
of being with my partner, of being one half
Literary Le ers to a whole. I know I must eventually move
away from this, but I simply cannot seem to
- it is in me at even a subconscious level;
you may have noticed that aside from the
Students in Year 10 have been studying poems by
Emily Bronte (Cold in the Earth) and Elizabeth
Bishop (One Art) - both about loss. Here a student
imagines a letter from one poet to the other in order to show understanding of the themes and the
different ways the poets approach their writing.
pairs I mention in the penultimate stanza
of my poem, the poetic form I chose (the
villanelle) also appears to convey this.
I commend you for your ability to
move on, even against your own will at
times. Your description of the “World’s Tide
bearing” you along perfectly encompassed
Dear Ms Bronte,
First of all, I would like to mention
how much I admire you and your writingespecially your poem Cold in the Earth. Af-
my own feelings since my loss.
I also admire the way you confront
your loss in such a bold manner. Sometimes I regret that the only way I can deal
ter reading this piece, I felt I had to write
with my grief is to try and persuade myself
to you; I feel we may be kindred spirits, you
it’s not a disaster; though I know in my
see. For, recently, I have lost my partner-
heart it is. I hope that, in time, I will come
and I feel you may be one of the few people
to accept my loss and deal with it with the
who understands my grief.
same grace as yourself.
I noticed some similarities within our
work, and I feel they are important. My poem, One Art (perhaps you have read it?) is
written with the rigid structure of the villanelle form. I saw that your own poem was
rather tightly structured, and wondered if
your reasons for this were the same as
mine. You see, I felt I had to express how
hard I had to try to control myself in the
face of my grief. I thought maybe you were
trying to express a similar sentiment?
This however, also made me wonder;
in your poem, you wrote that “fifteen wild
Decembers” had passed. This seems to me a
remarkably long time, yet your grief for
your “Only Love” seems so very fresh. I certainly do not want to feel this way for so
long, but your words made me wonder;
will I ever be whole again?
Your honesty in the poem was truly
commendable; how brave you must be to
admit to the world that you felt you would
take your own life! I, unfortunately, have
Yours sincerely,
Elizabeth Bishop
One of the BMS Independent Reading Scheme
tasks invites students to write a letter to a dead
author. In Year 8, Lilys Templeman took it one
step further and wrote Jane Austen’s reply.
Dear Miss Templeman
I enclose in this letter my deepest thanks for
the pains you went to whilst writing down
your generous thoughts for me. I am honoured to have received such fair flattery and
feel I must devote the morning to answering
your enquiries.
Pride and Prejudice is a novel dear to
my heart. I am well acquainted with the hideous Lady Catherine de Bourgh who, to my
intense pleasure, turned out most like a
not been nearly as strong in dealing with
neighbour from my childhood who used to pa-
my grief. I cling desperately to the memory
rade around the avenue talking of nothing
but her rather large fortune! She was a char-
what he wished to say and in which setting he
acter I felt deserved to be placed inside a sto-
wished to be placed. In answer to your ques-
ry.
tion, yes and no. Mr Collins as a single being
In a time when women had little in the
way of rights and were simply considered to
be the possession of a man, I was resolved to
introduce an Elizabeth Bennet, who represents the strength, that is to say both in persuasion and will, which is caged inside a woman’s heart. One should always have the freedom to have a voice, women as equally as
men. When others compress and dictate
your true self, be courageous and strong, for
every woman alive now, and those who will
follow.
That is the philosophy from which
I gain my strength to write. Ever since my
childhood, my passion has been to engrave
onto paper the worlds and friends that are
imprisoned in my imagination. As a woman
of this time, it has not proved as easy as I
dreamed as a child. So many doubted my talent, so many spurned me because of the fact
has never existed, but various aspects, such as
his sickeningly unassuming quality and excessive admiration, I have witnessed and
merged into one. Many characters share the
same inspiration as Mr Collins: characteristics observed in real acquaintances, brought
together. However, Mrs Bennet is based on
someone I knew well. My Grandmother suffered with her nerves, much like Mrs Bennet, and continuously mentioned her ability
to suffer in silence. I knew one day she belonged in a novel.
Mr Darcy is quite extraordinary. I
used him to demonstrate that there was also
pressure on the men, and lots of expectation,
meaning that love was sometimes disregarded. The men who openly suffered from this
and struggled to let go were often attractive
to the women, as we could see they care.
I am honoured that I have been
I am a woman. Over years I have persevered
considered an inspiration, and my genuine
and followed my desire for the world to know
thanks are owed for such a gracious response
that women can write, and to share the sto-
to my literature. I am certain this morning
ries that have lived in my mind.
has been well spent, and I believe that you,
I believe we are alike in preference
of character, for I too favour Mr Collins
and his comical habits. Whilst studiously
scripting his lines, the words seemed to flow
through my pen and on to the paper naturally. For some of the other roles, contemplation and careful wording were required, but
Mr Collins seemed to clearly dictate to me
I am dragged out of my state of vexation by a little
bird landing on my branches. He does not chirp,
he just takes in the view, a view that he enjoys. He
tells me how beautiful the city looks from above,
all the pretty lights, like stars, just not in the sky.
He enlightens me on the array of colours and the
busy streets, crowned by the empire of skyscrapers.
Despite his admiration of the view, he explains how he feels rather lost; his domain, the
sky, no longer belongs just to him. He has to
share it with those edifices. And before I can whisper, the bird files off, depriving me of distraction or
comfort.
They scrape the sky, leaving her punctured
and deflated and now, they defile the earth, leaving dirty, everlasting scars, my anchors when I’m
lost at sea.
Ever wonder why it rains so much these
days?
Miss Templeman, have a great many reading pleasures ahead of you.
Yours Most Sincerely,
The Spider
Faced with a picture and an opening line, Ritika
Roy constructs an original and haunting narrative.
The box. The door. The crumbling brick. It begged
me to enter. So I did.
The door groaned as I pushed it open. Inside the house was pitch-black, but the smell betrayed the long-empty place. The scent of decaying wood and damp mould hung in the air. The
floor was littered with broken glass- I felt it crunching underfoot. I stepped further into the small
room; suddenly the door slammed shut behind
me. I whipped around, frantically tugging at the
handle. It didn’t budge.
Pushing down my rising panic, I ventured up
the stairs, searching for a window that hadn’t been
boarded up. The floorboards creaked under my
weight, threatening to give way. Carefully, I tiptoed
down the short hallway, checking each room as I
went. I knew there was a tree next to the house; if
I could find an open window, I would be able to
climb down.
Then the noise started.
It was a low, rhythmic thudding sound, like
that of a rocking chair. It grew louder as I edged
further down the hallway, pausing to listen every
few steps. When I reached the end of the hallway,
I stopped outside the door, straining my ears. The
noise had abruptly stopped. I was certain I hadn’t
imagined it, and it was too quiet for me to have
misheard the direction of the sound- even the usually chirping crickets had been silenced. Something seemed to beckon me to open the door.
With a trembling hand, I gently pushed it open.
And that was when I saw her.
She stood by the open window so that a
shaft of light illuminated one side of her face. Next
to her was the rocking chair. Even from my position at the door I could see she was beautiful. She
had high cheekbones, and fair hair that was clearly thick and glossy. Her thin white nightgown fluttered in the balmy breeze of the evening. Her lips
were full and she had a tall, slender figure. But
something about her unnerved me. As she turned
slowly to face me, I saw why.
The side of her face that had been turned
away from me was grotesque. The sight of the
rotting flesh there sickened me. Her flesh was
stripped down to the bone in places- I could see
the whiteness of it in the midst of the grey mess
that was her cheek. Her eye drooped down miserably, as did the corner of her mouth. Her hair was
matted and partly missing, her scalp exposed in
patches. She turned then, fixing me with her piercing gaze.
My spine arched back at an impossible angle. My hands turned into claws, scrabbling in
panic at my throat. An agonising pressure built up
inside me, growing as her gaze remained steadily
on me.
I screamed.
And that was the last sound I ever made.
Now I can do nothing but watch her do it
again and again. She lures her victims in, one by
one. She is like a spider; ruthlessly trapping victims in her web. I’ve seen so many get caught- I
scream at them to go, to save
themselves, to pick up the box
and run. But they don’t hear
me. They don’t run.
She is unlike anything
you’ve ever seen, anything you
think you’ve heard of. She isn’t
your worst nightmare; she is
worse ...She steals souls; and
the box is where she keeps
them.
Prose
1930s America
Inspired by Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck,
Grace Thornton creates a moving and memorable
moment reflecting the mood of rural life in the
years following the Great Depression.
The hot beams of the midday sun blazed down
onto the ancient barn, while the bleached red
paint splintered in the heat. The grass itself was a
washed out green, mixed with yellow sticks of
horse hay. The wild birds drank gently from the
pond as dragonflies zoomed across the water’s
glistening surface, darting between the swaying
reeds. Riley gazed dreamily at the blue pool, her
pastel pink dress spread like an angel’s halo, her
eyes watching the fish beneath the glassy surface.
The sound of cart wheels being pushed
along the dirt track destroyed this tranquil scene,
harshly bringing it back to reality. A faint whistle
came from behind the trees as the cart on the dirt
track rumbled to a halt. The pond’s surface now
rippled with tiny imperfections, scaring the fish.
“Riley, are yer down there? Yer husban’s
look’n for yer,” called a dry voice, somewhere between the trees.
Riley looked around alarmed, as she rushed
to her feet and bolted towards the barn. A lanky,
tanned man appeared from the other side of the
tall green barrier which hid this forgotten wonderland.
“Riley, please come out, it’s me, Horace,” he
spoke gently towards the barn. A dainty figure
emerged between two heaps of straw on the
barn’s balcony. “What the hell you doin’ up there
you Wacko!” Horace sneered, his tone suddenly
cold.
“I don’t wanna see that bastard’s face no
more!” Riley replied viciously, kicking a lump of
straw off the balcony edge. A scarce breeze blew
over the ranch, catching the tumbling golden
straws and spreading them gracefully out over the
clearing. The pair had their faces turned to the sky
as they watched the trapeze act. It was Horace
who broke the unlikely silence.
“If you’re not in ma’ cart by the time I get to
ten I will yell for the boss to get yer down and that
won’t be at all funny, will it?” he jeered, shielding
his eyes from the scorching sun. Riley sighed and
sat down, dangling her legs over the side of the
balcony which groaned with her weight.
“You see Horace, I can’t remember who he
is, I can’t even remember his name!” Riley put her
head in her hands.
“You’re not right in the head, don’t you get
it? All you are is a pretty face,” replied Horace
harshly.
The last piece of straw fluttered down towards the pool’s surface, delicately landing on the
water. The fish beneath looked curiously up, wondering what the queer object could be. The sun
was a little lower now, glowing a more apricot colour than before. Horace’s safety lock clicked on
his gun as he pointed it towards Riley.
“I said get down,” he spoke threateningly,
gesturing with his spare hand. Riley looked at him
in amazement but remained where she was, gazing up at the motionless sky, noticing the placid
reds and yellows. The balcony groaned weakly
once more before it made a deafening crack, falling from the sky as quick as a sinking stone.
The ground shook, the wild birds flew away,
workers shouted from the nearby barley fields,
and the fish retreated back into the dark depths.
The ripples weakened and the sun sank further
down in the darkening sky. The water finally became still and the evening birds began to tweet.
The City of the Future
Asked to imagine this, Priyanka Kotak takes an
original perspective and finishes with a subtle nod
to pathetic fallacy.
The wind rustles through my leaves, its cooling
nature calming me down on a night in which the
city seems more condescending than ever, leaving me feeling insignificant. I watch the moon rise
behind the endless herd of buildings, noisily overpopulating the city, row upon row. In answer to
the moons light, these beasts cast vast, dominant
shadows. They cast more than just shadows over
the city; they cast spells.
It’s as if mankind has been possessed by
the witchcraft of technology, consumed by the
greediness for money; nature annihilated off the
planet. I am murdered and forgotten. My natural
beauty is no longer appreciated or respected; respect, obliterated by these towering, ghastly, artificial creatures.
Creatures? Beasts? Or perhaps facsimiles
of trees? They reach to the sky, like me. They dig
into the earth with deep foundations, like me. No,
these monsters are not trees; they are made by
man. They are taking over man and nature. Are
they my predators? Am I their prey? I fear that
they are closing in on me, all around me, waiting
to devour me. They soar above me, cloaked in
shards of glass, and stone, making everything below them feel worthless, every inch of nature.
Born this month
Writers on Autumn…
“No spring nor summer hath
such grace as I have seen in one
autumnal face” John Donne
“Life starts all over again when it
gets crisp in the fall” F. Scott
Roald Dahl (13.09.1916 - 23.11.1990)
September 13th 2016 marks the 100th anniversary
of the birth of one of the UK’s greatest children’s
authors, Roald Dahl. He wrote a total of 48 books,
including the best loved Charlie and the Chocolate
Factory, and the lesser known Kiss Kiss. Born in
Wales to Norwegian parents, Dahl attended Repton, a British boarding school, and then joined the
Royal Air Force. Only in 1961 when Dahl had children of his own, did he establish himself as a children’s writer, publishing his first book James and
the Giant Peach. He went on to write 21 children’s
books, with 9 also being made into films. He died
on 23rd November 1990.
Fitzgerald
“Autumn carries more gold in its
pocket than all the other seasons” Jim Bishop
“Autumn, the year’s last, loveliest smile” William Cullen Bryant
Literary News
Famous Authors
This issue’s puzzle is a word search with the
names of 45 famous authors: whoever finds the
most will win a prize. Hand your entries to Ms
Chumbley. Good luck!
Death of American Playwright
Edward Albee
Known for his marvellous work iWho’s Afraid of
Virginia Woolf? (1962), Edward Albee passed
away at the age of 88 years. Albee died on Friday
in his home on Long Island, with no cause of
death provided. Albee was a three-time Pulitzer
Prize winner, and perhaps one of America’s best
playwrights after Arthur Miller and August Wilson.
The Pulitzer Prize is an award for achievement
in American journalism, literature or music, and
thirteen are awarded each year.
He was awarded this great prize for A Delicate
Balance, Seascape and Three Tall Women. In his
plays he would explore various bleak theme sto
do with religion, American lifestyle and marriage.
He was denied a further Pulitzer Prize for Who’s
Afraid of Virginia Woolf due to its profanity and
sexual themes; consequently, however, Albee did
win the Tony Award for best play in 1963.
The Tony award is The Antoinette Perry Award
for Excellence in Theatre, it recognises achievement in Broadway theatre.
Miriam’s Monologues
Short Story
For her A* rated HPQ last year, Miriam Templeman
wrote a series of female monologues in response to
some very male poems by Robert Browning. If you
know My Last Duchess by Browning, this monologue is
a treat. If you don’t, look it up!
A Letter From The Emperor
One morning a cruel, blizzard swept land the Emperor sent a letter to the poor homestead of an old
couple in a village far from the capital. Furnished
in gold leaf and stamped with the red Imperial
seal, it announced that the Emperor would visit
their home within the next month during his grand
tour. The old couple, amongst the poorest of his
subjects, were ecstatic at the news.
“We must prepare!” said the Old Man, “our
home is in a dire state- unfit to be seen by an Emperor!”
So they began. Rooms were painted, furniture
dusted, and windows shined so they could reflect
every medal on the Emperor’s coat. Once a ruined habitat, the old couple’s home was as good
as new.
An exact month after the letter’s arrival, a
curt knocking landed on the door. It was an
Emissary of the Palace, coming in advance
to ensure the Emperor’s “safety and security”.
“It won’t do,” he said, upon completion of
his inspection.
“Why not?” said the Old Woman, her hand
gripped tightly by her husband.
“Your house is too polished for the Palace’s liking. The purpose of his visit was to
capture the Emperor in picture with his poorest subjects. This location was believed to be
destitute. In its current state, it can’t be utilised. Good day.”
The Emissary exited into the storm. Outside the blizzard still raged, pounding at the
walls. The Old Couple, shaken and shivering, sighed together. It would be a cold winter.
Will Smith
THE LAST DUCHESS: There? A little to
Poet’s Corner
Iona Wilson comments on a poem by Victorian
poet Christina Rossetti
When I am dead, my dearest
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.
With a lyrical and song-like metre and rhythm,
along with simple language and form, ‘When I am
dead, my dearest’ can be seen as quite characteristic of Rossetti’s poetic style. Here, she uses subtle rhyme on the second, fourth, sixth and eighth
lines of each stanza, which adds to the song-like
form. Repetition is used quite prominently with the
first three lines of the second stanza repeating “I
shall not” before referencing the different senses
of sight, touch and hearing, thus emphasising the
loss of these, and their lacking importance once
dead, as the attention is shifted onto non-worldly
things. The repetition of the theme of memory with
the closing lines of each stanza creates a stronger
link between the two verses and gives the poem a
sense of completion, as well as bringing the
theme of memory more to the fore. the left…ah…better? Wonderful.
I do so hope you will be satisfied with the outcome, Mr. Pandolf. I know I shall simply love anything your gifted hands brush, but my true joy will
be sharing that love with you. I do so hope you are
satisfied.
What an honour it is to be your subject! The
subject of the great Fra Pandolf! I know I shan’t
ever get used to seeing myself on the wall – although I’m sure my husband would prefer it if I did
indeed reside there forever. Oops, do forgive me, I
lost myself– is this agreeable to you? Please do
inform me if I can better my position for you.
Your hands move so delicately, Sir. I admire
the way you teach the brush to sing through every
stroke. If I had been blessed with such talents –
why, I should never leave the easel! Indeed Mr.
Pandolf, you do tease! I, paint? Not very well I assure you, as my husband could attest. He could
attest to many of my faults, I can promise.
Oh Sir, do not think I speak ill of my husband! He just… does not appreciate me…in the
way…what I mean to say is that I am sure he
ranks his money and standing far above his wife,
as I am sure many such laudable men do. Unfortunately, this leaves my poor self rather without a
voice. That is why I enjoy times like this such a
great deal, dear Mr. Pandolf – for with you, and
other like-minded gentleman, I have a voice. And
these gentlemen have always been so very kind.
Why, I remember one dear man who brought me
fresh cherries, and another a white mule which I
rode around the terrace for many a happy hour.
And now, I am truly blessed to have my face on
your canvas, Mr. Pandolf. That is the biggest honour of them all.
Jealous? My husband? Oh, Sir, how could
he be? For I dote on him with all of my breaths
with all of my days, for him to turn on me and
speak of how I am too easy to blush, too easy be
made merry, and – heaven forbid – that I could
be…indeed, not a subject I ever wish to be questioned on! For my honour! You know not, Mr. Pan-
dolf, the troubles I endure with him. He is a fine,
fine man…but his trust for me is scarce. I fear he
goes quite insane if I even so much as smile at
another gentleman! Why, I believe, Sir, he shall be
talking to himself this very moment, in his study, of
the trials and tribulations a wife such as myself
brings. How I wish I did not affect him so. But alas,
the more I declare my love, the less he will believe
it. And I have so much love to give, Mr. Pandolf.
So much…passion to share. Where would the
world be without such…passion, Sir? Without
such emotions that do tear through our very beings and make us thirst – beg – for more? I do
apologise, I rather lost my posture.
Dearest Mr. Pandolf, let us not focus on my
meagre woes, for I am sure I do exaggerate. But
thank you, for your kind ear. It is funny – you think
nothing of it, yet to me, a gentle ear means the
world. More than you would ever know. It would
please me to repay you for your kindness in any
way I can. There is always time to repay kindness,
Mr. Pandolf.
You are finished, Sir? How my heart flutters
with excitement! I could not think of anything so
deliciously exciting as to have oneself raised up
and placed on a wall to survey the surroundings.
That way I can always observe, dear Sir. Silently,
my soft eye – crafted by your so delicate brush –
can keep this house and its dear guests safe and
sound. Always safe.
I can scarcely breathe at the thought of seeing your creation. Does every client of yours feel
this…surge of anticipation? I just know I shall love
your work, if you are ready to unveil it to me. You
are sure you are finished here, dear Sir? Quite,
quite sure?
Miriam writes: I loved the idea of
giving women a voice in an era when they were voiceless, in a poem where they were the silent subject. It
was exciting to challenge and reject 19th century stereotypes. My Last Duchess was particularly intriguing;
the Duchess is a very ambiguous character and Browning constantly teases readers. Innocently sweet or toogood-to-be-true? You decide. This ambiguity gave me
lots to play with and the first step was to squeeze all
the ‘juice’ out of the piece - you may notice that the
cherries and the white mule are taken from the poem,
while the portrait discussed in Browning’s narrative becomes the setting– the Duchess chats to Fra Pandolf
whilst he paints her. The fact that death approaches
adds to the atmosphere! Browning writes with drama
and – I think - an exceptional understanding of human
nature. I believe the complex women I explored
thought—as Browning himself wrote-“Love is the energy of life”. Perhaps he was right…..