The title of this autobiography causes the reader to take a second glance. How can Alice B Toklas’ autobiography be written by someone who is not herself? Gertrude Stein disguises herself in the character of her close personal friend, Alice, and looks at their experiences together through Alice’s eyes. There are various possible explanations for this, one being that she wanted to celebrate the life of her friend. However, it seems more likely that Stein has used this as a devise to celebrate her own achievements. ‘Alice’ refers to Gertrude Stein as a ‘genius’. This is a clever devise which allows Stein to boast about her own achievements in a way that is more socially acceptable than if she had celebrated these in her own autobiography.
The most interesting aspect of the book lies in its depiction of the early lives of famous artists such as Picasso and Matisse in Paris in the early part of the 20th century. The book exudes a gossipy appeal as we hear about the private lives of the famous artists, though at times it can seem like an exhaustive catalogue of name dropping. Also interesting were the experiences of Americans stranded in France when the First World War broke out and how resourceful they had to be.
Ultimately, Gertrude Stein is not a character who appeals to the reader. She comes across as conceited and dismissive of other people and she portrays Alice as a rather dull person who is only fit for a secondary role in Gertrude’s glamorous life.
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
Waiting Room
When we reached the top of the stairs we were confronted with an image of blue. Blue carpets, blue walls, blue blinds and teamed with the sensation in my stomach, it was like being on a boat at sea. The second thing that struck me was the emptiness and quietness of the room, despite it being located in the centre of town. The receptionist who we had announced our arrival to was also absent. Perhaps she was behind one of the many mysterious doors that were lining the edges of the room? To make the waiting process less dull, an eclectic pile of magazines was carefully stacked on a small table in the middle of the room. I shuffled through one, hoping that it would provide an alternative focus for my mind but I found myself just reading the words as if they had no meaning, they were just patterns on a page. I remember discovering a quiz in the back pages of the magazine called ‘does your man really love you?’ and I half jokingly began to answer the questions. Having found that this new tool distracted my thoughts I was slightly disappointed when I was interrupted by the opening of one of the mysterious doors. An older man came out and paced towards a different door, without acknowledging the existence of me and mum, and shut it firmly behind him. He had left the door of the first room wide open so that I was able to see a small boy sitting nervously in a chair with an abacus on the table. I clearly remember thinking, ‘I hope I don’t have to use an abacus,’ when the older man hurried out of the secret room and abruptly shut the door on the small boy and on my curious eyes.
At this point it had struck me that we must have been waiting for a long time and eventually boredom greeted me. My mother was already deep into one of her engrossing novels and seemed unavailable for conversation. When boredom kicks in the main apparatus you have to entertain yourself is your thoughts and my thoughts turned to the concept of this room. We were in a waiting room. A room which is solely used for people to wait in. Other rooms are for people to keep themselves busy in, such as the kitchen where you cook and eat, or the bedroom where you sleep, or the living room where you absorb yourself in your favourite television programme. But this is the room where you wait. This is the boredom room. Furthermore, waiting rooms never seem to have a positive or exciting outcome. They lead to you having your mouth probed and a filling drilled in to a tooth, or finding out that you have a broken leg or cracked ribs. They lead to you being grilled and humiliated in an interview, or waiting for a train which has inevitably been cancelled. Waiting rooms never have a positive outcome.
At this point it had struck me that we must have been waiting for a long time and eventually boredom greeted me. My mother was already deep into one of her engrossing novels and seemed unavailable for conversation. When boredom kicks in the main apparatus you have to entertain yourself is your thoughts and my thoughts turned to the concept of this room. We were in a waiting room. A room which is solely used for people to wait in. Other rooms are for people to keep themselves busy in, such as the kitchen where you cook and eat, or the bedroom where you sleep, or the living room where you absorb yourself in your favourite television programme. But this is the room where you wait. This is the boredom room. Furthermore, waiting rooms never seem to have a positive or exciting outcome. They lead to you having your mouth probed and a filling drilled in to a tooth, or finding out that you have a broken leg or cracked ribs. They lead to you being grilled and humiliated in an interview, or waiting for a train which has inevitably been cancelled. Waiting rooms never have a positive outcome.
Thursday, 3 December 2009
A is for Alien
By the age of six I knew I was an alien. Not the peculiar breed that are an off green colour and have enlarged heads, stretched limbs and protruding eyes. Not the kind that you would see in E.T, Star Trek, or Doctor Who. I was more subtle than this. An alien in disguise. When I was born my mother neglected to inform me of this information, even despite the fact that being a different species is quite big news. She didn’t seem very alien-like herself though, and nor did dad, and I’m not even sure if they knew that I was one despite all the clues they had at their disposal. The humans at school all seemed to know though.
My throat was becoming sore and dry but tears persisted to race down my hot clammy face. It was my first day of junior school and I needed to stop crying now but my eyes had not yet been emptied of this salty liquid. The howling was still stinging my throat as my mother carried me across the playground towards Mrs Banks. Mrs Banks was a strange looking human because none of her features seemed to fit on her face. Her nose and chin were like plants that had been kept in the dark and were extending their stems to the only slither of light that was in sight. Her hair was scraped up into a pony tail with only one long wiry strand hanging down and tickling her nose. She grasped my hand and led me into the school building, along the corridor towards the classroom where the other young humans had already gathered. I remember feeling awkward and uneasy next to this stranger but she promised she wouldn’t leave me when we entered the classroom. Still walking along the hallway I remember seeing the door which had four glass panes in the top half so I could see an old hairy human talking to the class. We reached the door and the human plant released me from her tight grasp and left. She said she wouldn’t leave. Panic consumed my body as I saw the judging eyes that were looking up at me. The old hairy human was Mr Baker, my year three teacher. He asked me some polite questions but I seized up and didn’t know how to reply, as if I had forgotten how to speak. I remember feeling exposed, as if my disguise was fading, revealing my long green limbs and my inhuman shaped head. Without saying a word I slowly walked to the back of classroom in the hope that I would become invisible and fade into the surroundings like a piece of furniture. I was seated in an empty space next to Jimmy Cork. I nervously glanced at his face to size up what this particular specimen was like but there was no comfort to be found. He stuck his unnaturally long mobile tongue out of his mouth and forced his face to look like a screwed up ball of paper. To add to my shock, Jimmy Cork slyly leaned across and, using his fingers as pincers, sharply nipped the flesh of my upper arm.
I wanted to escape from this planet because I was different to these people.
I was an Alien.
My throat was becoming sore and dry but tears persisted to race down my hot clammy face. It was my first day of junior school and I needed to stop crying now but my eyes had not yet been emptied of this salty liquid. The howling was still stinging my throat as my mother carried me across the playground towards Mrs Banks. Mrs Banks was a strange looking human because none of her features seemed to fit on her face. Her nose and chin were like plants that had been kept in the dark and were extending their stems to the only slither of light that was in sight. Her hair was scraped up into a pony tail with only one long wiry strand hanging down and tickling her nose. She grasped my hand and led me into the school building, along the corridor towards the classroom where the other young humans had already gathered. I remember feeling awkward and uneasy next to this stranger but she promised she wouldn’t leave me when we entered the classroom. Still walking along the hallway I remember seeing the door which had four glass panes in the top half so I could see an old hairy human talking to the class. We reached the door and the human plant released me from her tight grasp and left. She said she wouldn’t leave. Panic consumed my body as I saw the judging eyes that were looking up at me. The old hairy human was Mr Baker, my year three teacher. He asked me some polite questions but I seized up and didn’t know how to reply, as if I had forgotten how to speak. I remember feeling exposed, as if my disguise was fading, revealing my long green limbs and my inhuman shaped head. Without saying a word I slowly walked to the back of classroom in the hope that I would become invisible and fade into the surroundings like a piece of furniture. I was seated in an empty space next to Jimmy Cork. I nervously glanced at his face to size up what this particular specimen was like but there was no comfort to be found. He stuck his unnaturally long mobile tongue out of his mouth and forced his face to look like a screwed up ball of paper. To add to my shock, Jimmy Cork slyly leaned across and, using his fingers as pincers, sharply nipped the flesh of my upper arm.
I wanted to escape from this planet because I was different to these people.
I was an Alien.
Wednesday, 2 December 2009
Book review of Joan Didion’s ‘The year of magical thinking’
This memoir focuses on a year of Joan Didion’s life in which she is grieving for the loss of her husband and at the same time experiencing great distress as her daughter is critically ill in hospital. The title of the book, ‘The year of magical thinking’ refers to her belief that her husband will return. She expresses this conviction several times in the memoir and even keeps his shoes because she thinks he will need them for when he reappears. It is very rare that authors write about bereavement and grief to this extent. These emotions are often kept private and can sometimes be embarrassing or too difficult to discuss with others.
Initially this memoir evokes an emotional response and the reader may feel that they can relate to Didion’s shock and disbelief when her husband is suddenly taken from her and writing this was probably a cathartic experience, helping her to come to terms with her pain and to accept that he has gone. As the memoir progresses however, Didion goes over and over the same events which may be necessary for her but is not so interesting for the reader. In addition to this she introduces a lot of incomprehensible medical jargon in an attempt to understand exactly what caused her husbands death. It may be concluded that although this is a brave book to write, it fails to hold the reader’s interest.
Initially this memoir evokes an emotional response and the reader may feel that they can relate to Didion’s shock and disbelief when her husband is suddenly taken from her and writing this was probably a cathartic experience, helping her to come to terms with her pain and to accept that he has gone. As the memoir progresses however, Didion goes over and over the same events which may be necessary for her but is not so interesting for the reader. In addition to this she introduces a lot of incomprehensible medical jargon in an attempt to understand exactly what caused her husbands death. It may be concluded that although this is a brave book to write, it fails to hold the reader’s interest.
Monday, 30 November 2009
F is for forgetting
In ‘The importance of being Ernest’ Oscar Wilde once said, ‘memory is the diary that we all carry about with us’. It is an integral part of our daily routines and of our lives. But what happens if we misplace our diary? What if it gets suffocated under the pile of unnecessary junk that we refuse to dispose of? Our first loves would come and go leaving no trace of their existence, as if they were a sweet dream that managed to escape the world of reality. Our arguments, our mistakes, and our achievements would no longer exist. We would be bed ridden, we would be vegetables, and we would be dependable on everyone apart from ourselves.
Walking along the cracked pavement stones that were lined with beds of pink and yellow flowers I remember feeling confused. We were going to visit grandpa but this wasn’t his house. I remember it as a large grey building that seemed to be caught in the middle of the 1930’s, even though I have since seen photographs that showed it as a dainty and recently painted white modern structure. Perhaps my mistaken grey image was just a reflection on the day itself.
Dad pressed firmly on the loud speaker system and announced our family to the people on the other end. The door abruptly buzzed open and we all entered this unfamiliar territory. Dad stepped in front of us, leading me and mum towards the woman at the reception. He was taking charge and purposely putting on a brave face in the hope that he would fool us both into believing that this situation was just like any other day. As we walked down the hallway in the direction of grandpa’s room my eyes began to prickle with tears. My feet became reluctant to take steps forward and had to be persuaded not to turn around and run back to the safety of the car.
A nurse swept past us as we approached the door. Dad breezily opened it as it if was the door to a restaurant or a pub and we were just going in for a casual drink. He stepped in with us shuffling behind him.
‘Hi Dad! It’s Dave and I’ve bought Jess and Val with me to see you’
I crept out from behind dad and went to sit on the chair at the far side of the room. The word ‘small’ was the word that immediately struck me when I saw this man, my granddad, lying emotionless on the bed in the middle of the room. He just looked so much smaller than usual. He looked different. His skin was a dull grey colour, and he seemed to be sinking into the bed as if he wanted it to take him away. His eyes also seemed grey and were stretched wide but projected no emotion. They turned to focus on me.
‘Who’s this?’
‘That’s Jess your Grand Daughter, dad, remember?’
Dementia is a disease of the brain and can cause severe memory loss and problems with everyday functioning. As Oscar Wilde said, ‘memory is the diary that we all carry about with us’ and my grandpa had lost his diary and he never got it back.
Walking along the cracked pavement stones that were lined with beds of pink and yellow flowers I remember feeling confused. We were going to visit grandpa but this wasn’t his house. I remember it as a large grey building that seemed to be caught in the middle of the 1930’s, even though I have since seen photographs that showed it as a dainty and recently painted white modern structure. Perhaps my mistaken grey image was just a reflection on the day itself.
Dad pressed firmly on the loud speaker system and announced our family to the people on the other end. The door abruptly buzzed open and we all entered this unfamiliar territory. Dad stepped in front of us, leading me and mum towards the woman at the reception. He was taking charge and purposely putting on a brave face in the hope that he would fool us both into believing that this situation was just like any other day. As we walked down the hallway in the direction of grandpa’s room my eyes began to prickle with tears. My feet became reluctant to take steps forward and had to be persuaded not to turn around and run back to the safety of the car.
A nurse swept past us as we approached the door. Dad breezily opened it as it if was the door to a restaurant or a pub and we were just going in for a casual drink. He stepped in with us shuffling behind him.
‘Hi Dad! It’s Dave and I’ve bought Jess and Val with me to see you’
I crept out from behind dad and went to sit on the chair at the far side of the room. The word ‘small’ was the word that immediately struck me when I saw this man, my granddad, lying emotionless on the bed in the middle of the room. He just looked so much smaller than usual. He looked different. His skin was a dull grey colour, and he seemed to be sinking into the bed as if he wanted it to take him away. His eyes also seemed grey and were stretched wide but projected no emotion. They turned to focus on me.
‘Who’s this?’
‘That’s Jess your Grand Daughter, dad, remember?’
Dementia is a disease of the brain and can cause severe memory loss and problems with everyday functioning. As Oscar Wilde said, ‘memory is the diary that we all carry about with us’ and my grandpa had lost his diary and he never got it back.
Thursday, 26 November 2009
Book Review of Vladimir Nabokov's 'Speak, Memory'
‘Speak Memory’ is Nabokov’s memoir of his early life. It is subtitled ‘An Autobiography Revisited’ because each of the chapters was originally a magazine article as he explains in the foreword. These articles were written over a period of several years and when they were ‘revisited’ he made changes and corrections. Each chapter deals with a main topic which explores a particular memory. However, the chapters are not linked together into a fluent narrative which can make it difficult to follow.
Nabokov’s autobiography is a challenging read. The style is distinctive and often poetic but the sentences are exhaustingly long and the vocabulary is highly sophisticated. He includes vocabulary from a whole range of semantic fields, such as, science, literature, politics and nature and some phrases are in French or Russian.
A main theme of his autobiography is Memory itself. The title ‘Speak, Memory’ is expressed as a command as if he is urging his memory to recall significant moments in his life. In chapter 7 he states that he is aiming for precision in memory and he pushes himself until he recalls the name of the dog that he has forgotten. In chapter 8 he discusses ‘the supreme achievement of memory’ which appears to mean the way it brings together disjointed images into a harmonious whole. This description continues for a page of densely poetic writing describing images, movements and sounds to create an almost cinematic image. This style of writing contrasts with chapter three which mostly consists of a list of his family members and their brief biographies.
Parts of this book are frustratingly difficult to follow but Nabokov’s poetic use of language often compensates for this.
Nabokov’s autobiography is a challenging read. The style is distinctive and often poetic but the sentences are exhaustingly long and the vocabulary is highly sophisticated. He includes vocabulary from a whole range of semantic fields, such as, science, literature, politics and nature and some phrases are in French or Russian.
A main theme of his autobiography is Memory itself. The title ‘Speak, Memory’ is expressed as a command as if he is urging his memory to recall significant moments in his life. In chapter 7 he states that he is aiming for precision in memory and he pushes himself until he recalls the name of the dog that he has forgotten. In chapter 8 he discusses ‘the supreme achievement of memory’ which appears to mean the way it brings together disjointed images into a harmonious whole. This description continues for a page of densely poetic writing describing images, movements and sounds to create an almost cinematic image. This style of writing contrasts with chapter three which mostly consists of a list of his family members and their brief biographies.
Parts of this book are frustratingly difficult to follow but Nabokov’s poetic use of language often compensates for this.
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
Book Review of Augusten Burrough's 'Runing with Scissors'
A constant theme that runs through Augusten Burroughs ‘Running with Scissors’ seems to be surrealism and insanity. Every character that the reader is introduced to lacks traits of normality and behaves in bizarre ways. Dr Finch and his family for example, seem to possess no inhibitions or constraints as when the Doctor turns his excrements into sculpture like artefacts in the belief that they are messages from God.
Augusten has been abandoned by his insane mother and is left to the mercy of this eccentric family, this encourages the reader to feel sympathetic towards his situation. Burroughs memoir of his childhood is surreal to say the least. So much so that it almost seems like a fictionalised family from an extreme sitcom and it makes one question the reliability of his account. The main response to all this is incredulous laughter but underlying this is the serious plight of a vulnerable and neglected young person who is abandoned by almost everyone who he has come to depend on.
The amoral and crazy world in which Augusten finds himself draws the reader in until they feel disorientated because it becomes impossible to judge who is the most insane. In almost everything you read there is some character who embodies what we think of as ‘normal’ or moral standards. But in this memoir there is no standard of normality to compare the characters to, even Augusten’s boyfriend Neil, who appears to love him, displays signs of being potentially dangerous. Reading this book was an enjoyable experience. However, the unhinged characters and the alien and chaotic world they live in makes it an unsettling experience too.
Augusten has been abandoned by his insane mother and is left to the mercy of this eccentric family, this encourages the reader to feel sympathetic towards his situation. Burroughs memoir of his childhood is surreal to say the least. So much so that it almost seems like a fictionalised family from an extreme sitcom and it makes one question the reliability of his account. The main response to all this is incredulous laughter but underlying this is the serious plight of a vulnerable and neglected young person who is abandoned by almost everyone who he has come to depend on.
The amoral and crazy world in which Augusten finds himself draws the reader in until they feel disorientated because it becomes impossible to judge who is the most insane. In almost everything you read there is some character who embodies what we think of as ‘normal’ or moral standards. But in this memoir there is no standard of normality to compare the characters to, even Augusten’s boyfriend Neil, who appears to love him, displays signs of being potentially dangerous. Reading this book was an enjoyable experience. However, the unhinged characters and the alien and chaotic world they live in makes it an unsettling experience too.
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
E is for Emily.
I have often wondered why we end up having the friends that we do. What attracts us to them and them to us? Is it our similarities? Similar interests or similar fashions? Or do we like to unconsciously swim away from traits that we find in ourselves and pick friends that are our complete opposites? Opposites do seem to attract; sweet and sour, hot and cold, tall and short, fat and thin, rich and poor and even at times intelligent and.. less intelligent.
Do we even pick our friends or are they occasionally forced upon us? Are we friends with the other girl that got left out of playing kiss chase because no one wants to kiss her either, resulting in no other choice but to team up to form the ‘undesirable two’.
Finding friends at school is like trying to get hold of the perfect dress that has recently gone on sale. Those who arrive at the shop first manage to grab the dresses that fit them best, but if you arrive too late you are left with the slightly baggy around the chest dresses, the ones that don’t really fit but they will do.
Emily was my baggy dress. She was a largely plump girl, with a perfectly rounded face. This face always seemed to be creased with an eye squinting smile that often looked like she was experiencing mild pain. Her lips were thin and noticeably chapped and when they opened they released a high pitched twang in her voice. Her mannerisms were always exaggerated: when she laughed at jokes her laugh turned into a brutal cackle and when she’d hug me hello she would boisterously launch her arms at me causing me to topple over.
As a child I was relatively timid, or ‘painfully shy’ as my mother would say. I would never leave her side when at a children’ party and when I was spoken to I would hide underneath mums coat. To the observer I was a very blonde and scrawny little girl; I wasn’t much of a talker and tended to keep myself to myself. The complete opposite of Emily. Emily’s family were all incredibly similar to her, when I walked into her house I felt small and inferior, an alien to their way of living and acting. However, in a strange way I didn’t seem to mind. I would happily spend my time with this slightly over powering brute. Once, we even went as far as sticking our hands together with super glue so that I would never have to leave her house. Obviously our plan failed when my mother was forced to enter the house to help Emily’s mother prize our hands off of each other’s using fairy liquid and water. To my mother’s relief, when I left to go to a separate secondary school I never saw my opposite, Emily, again.
Do we even pick our friends or are they occasionally forced upon us? Are we friends with the other girl that got left out of playing kiss chase because no one wants to kiss her either, resulting in no other choice but to team up to form the ‘undesirable two’.
Finding friends at school is like trying to get hold of the perfect dress that has recently gone on sale. Those who arrive at the shop first manage to grab the dresses that fit them best, but if you arrive too late you are left with the slightly baggy around the chest dresses, the ones that don’t really fit but they will do.
Emily was my baggy dress. She was a largely plump girl, with a perfectly rounded face. This face always seemed to be creased with an eye squinting smile that often looked like she was experiencing mild pain. Her lips were thin and noticeably chapped and when they opened they released a high pitched twang in her voice. Her mannerisms were always exaggerated: when she laughed at jokes her laugh turned into a brutal cackle and when she’d hug me hello she would boisterously launch her arms at me causing me to topple over.
As a child I was relatively timid, or ‘painfully shy’ as my mother would say. I would never leave her side when at a children’ party and when I was spoken to I would hide underneath mums coat. To the observer I was a very blonde and scrawny little girl; I wasn’t much of a talker and tended to keep myself to myself. The complete opposite of Emily. Emily’s family were all incredibly similar to her, when I walked into her house I felt small and inferior, an alien to their way of living and acting. However, in a strange way I didn’t seem to mind. I would happily spend my time with this slightly over powering brute. Once, we even went as far as sticking our hands together with super glue so that I would never have to leave her house. Obviously our plan failed when my mother was forced to enter the house to help Emily’s mother prize our hands off of each other’s using fairy liquid and water. To my mother’s relief, when I left to go to a separate secondary school I never saw my opposite, Emily, again.
Book Review of Nigel Slater’s ‘Toast’
Nigel Slater uses the ongoing theme of food to provide an interesting structure to the autobiography of his childhood and early years. However, the memoir is much more than just a catalogue of food. It is a memoir of the senses – the colours, tastes, smells and textures of the different foods are lovingly described, and these all evoke memories of childhood experiences, both happy and sad. Often the tone is nostalgic, as for example he describes the pleasures of eating sweets which are no longer commonly found in shops. There is also frequent humour in Slater’s descriptions of tastes and textures and the discovery of new and ‘exotic ‘ foods such as spaghetti illustrates this.
Food is used to set the scene for many of his childhood experiences. For example it is always a background to the description of his relationship with his mother. He obviously loves her very much but is frustrated with her lack of cooking skills, ‘how could you let the flapjacks burn?’
After Slater’s mother’s death food is used in a battle of wills between father and son as his father tries to force him to eat things that make him feel physically sick. So, in this autobiography, as in everyday life, food is never simply food, it always connotes other things such as comfort, love or control.
Although Slater’s technique is an innovative way of structuring his story, after a while the obsessive focus on food becomes rather relentless, although it does convey his passion for something that is to become his career.
Food is used to set the scene for many of his childhood experiences. For example it is always a background to the description of his relationship with his mother. He obviously loves her very much but is frustrated with her lack of cooking skills, ‘how could you let the flapjacks burn?’
After Slater’s mother’s death food is used in a battle of wills between father and son as his father tries to force him to eat things that make him feel physically sick. So, in this autobiography, as in everyday life, food is never simply food, it always connotes other things such as comfort, love or control.
Although Slater’s technique is an innovative way of structuring his story, after a while the obsessive focus on food becomes rather relentless, although it does convey his passion for something that is to become his career.
Thursday, 29 October 2009
Book review of Alison Bechdel's 'Fun Home'
‘Fun home’ is an autobiographical ‘tragicomic’. Comics are multimodal texts – they create their meaning through images as well as words. Traditionally, comics are light weight, entertaining and fictional but they can be a powerful medium to express feelings and explore serious issues. Bechdel’s graphic autobiography explores the tensions that occur in her family life including her father’s gay affairs and his suicide. In ‘Fun Home’ Alison Bechdel tells her childhood story using a form similar to a graphic novel. However, unlike most graphic novels which are about super heroes or fantasy worlds, her work concerns a funeral home or a ‘fun home’. The title of the book is ironic considering that the most amount of ‘fun’ that Alison Bechdel appears to have is when they spot a snake on a camping trip which even then is depressingly related to her father’s suicide.
A writer’s tool is language and this is usually used to create mood, movement and narrative structure. However in graphic novels it is the images that help to create these factors. Colour helps to create the mood that is suitable for a ‘tragicomic’ so in this case it is blacks, whites and greys. This use of colour, or lack of, reflects the morbid tone of the story and it works to inject this gloomy and depressing tone into the reader. The facial expressions of the characters are a further method used by Bechdel to create mood and movement. The parents especially are continuously portrayed as emotionless and negative looking.
For me, the images brought the story to life because there was no need to form a mental picture of the characters and the setting, it was already done for me, bringing me closer to the author’s experiences.
Clumsy Child Syndrome
'She is so gracefully clumsy,’ my ballet teacher announced to my mother at the end of my second and last ever lesson.
‘Clumsy’ was a word that was going to pop up frequently when I was the topic of conversation. It would be said in anger, ‘For god’s sake Jessica, can you stop being so clumsy,’ it would be said with a sense of pity, ‘Oh poor Jessie, try to look where you’re going this time,’ and it would be mentioned as the topic of someone’s ‘witty’ joke, ‘here comes Jess, everyone hold on to your drinks!’ – (a joke frequently made by my hilarious father).
As a child, red wine seemed to be my unconscious target.
A particularly vivid memory comes to mind whilst scanning through my large mental list of possible accidents to relate. As an 8 (soon to be 9) year old I was still being dragged along to my parents’ dinner parties. I say ‘dragged’ but in truth I don’t remember being too bothered by it. Sitting silently curled up in the corner of an unnecessarily large sofa I remember being very conscious of the glass of red wine that was being carelessly placed down in between sips. As the adults’ conversation gathered speed, my brain was urging me not to move my legs,
‘DO NOT MOVE YOUR LEGS!’
I was concentrating so hard on not moving my legs that I seemed to fill them up with pins and needles. The tingling fuzzy feeling became so excruciatingly irritating that my leg seemed to lash out, of course knocking over the glass of wine that was standing so proudly on the edge of the coffee table. It’s strange, but moments like this always seem to be remembered in slow motion. The glass slowly shifted its weight to one side and the deep red liquid was forced to slosh out on to the white carpet and spread itself as far as possible across the floor. My father’s eyes shot a disappointed look in my direction and the host of the party hurried to the kitchen to pick up salt which was supposedly meant to magic away stubborn wine stains. My face began to heat up and embarrassment waved at me from across the room. I had plastered burgundy poison over a pristine white carpet and the magical salt was not hiding it. This was at the beginning of the night: dinner had not even begun, so I had to sit in the corner of that unnecessarily large sofa all evening whilst my burgundy poison slyly stared up at me.
‘Clumsy’ was a word that was going to pop up frequently when I was the topic of conversation. It would be said in anger, ‘For god’s sake Jessica, can you stop being so clumsy,’ it would be said with a sense of pity, ‘Oh poor Jessie, try to look where you’re going this time,’ and it would be mentioned as the topic of someone’s ‘witty’ joke, ‘here comes Jess, everyone hold on to your drinks!’ – (a joke frequently made by my hilarious father).
As a child, red wine seemed to be my unconscious target.
A particularly vivid memory comes to mind whilst scanning through my large mental list of possible accidents to relate. As an 8 (soon to be 9) year old I was still being dragged along to my parents’ dinner parties. I say ‘dragged’ but in truth I don’t remember being too bothered by it. Sitting silently curled up in the corner of an unnecessarily large sofa I remember being very conscious of the glass of red wine that was being carelessly placed down in between sips. As the adults’ conversation gathered speed, my brain was urging me not to move my legs,
‘DO NOT MOVE YOUR LEGS!’
I was concentrating so hard on not moving my legs that I seemed to fill them up with pins and needles. The tingling fuzzy feeling became so excruciatingly irritating that my leg seemed to lash out, of course knocking over the glass of wine that was standing so proudly on the edge of the coffee table. It’s strange, but moments like this always seem to be remembered in slow motion. The glass slowly shifted its weight to one side and the deep red liquid was forced to slosh out on to the white carpet and spread itself as far as possible across the floor. My father’s eyes shot a disappointed look in my direction and the host of the party hurried to the kitchen to pick up salt which was supposedly meant to magic away stubborn wine stains. My face began to heat up and embarrassment waved at me from across the room. I had plastered burgundy poison over a pristine white carpet and the magical salt was not hiding it. This was at the beginning of the night: dinner had not even begun, so I had to sit in the corner of that unnecessarily large sofa all evening whilst my burgundy poison slyly stared up at me.
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
Book review of 'Stuart, A Life Backwards' by Alexander Masters
‘Stuart, A Life Backwards’ is a biography about a homeless psychotic drug abuser. He is an interesting subject for a biography because usually they deal with celebrities, historical figures or people who have done something noteworthy.
At Stuarts own suggestion, the biography is written backwards. The narrator is Alexander Masters and it is mostly his voice that we hear but he also uses letters, diary extracts, and records of interviews to construct Stuart’s story and add validity to the account. When the story begins the reader is already informed of Stuart’s supposed suicide and though it is told backwards, the narrative does not proceed in a chronological straight line. The question must be asked why Masters chose this technique of playing with the timeline. In parts it can be confusing for the reader when trying to locate themselves in the story. Perhaps this technique is trying to mirror Stuart’s ‘chaotic’ persona.
Stuart has had a life full of prison sentences, drug usage from the age of thirteen and homelessness. Many of his problems can be traced back to his childhood when he was horrifically abused by his family and others in positions of trust. Yet despite this, Stuart is presented as endearing and surprisingly likable.
The biography has the effect of making people more aware of the social issue of homelessness and challenges some of the stereotypes that we might have of homeless people. It is a common belief that people are homeless through faults of their own, but after reading this account of Stuart’s life the reader sympathises with him and realises that he is not entirely to blame for everything that has gone wrong.
At Stuarts own suggestion, the biography is written backwards. The narrator is Alexander Masters and it is mostly his voice that we hear but he also uses letters, diary extracts, and records of interviews to construct Stuart’s story and add validity to the account. When the story begins the reader is already informed of Stuart’s supposed suicide and though it is told backwards, the narrative does not proceed in a chronological straight line. The question must be asked why Masters chose this technique of playing with the timeline. In parts it can be confusing for the reader when trying to locate themselves in the story. Perhaps this technique is trying to mirror Stuart’s ‘chaotic’ persona.
Stuart has had a life full of prison sentences, drug usage from the age of thirteen and homelessness. Many of his problems can be traced back to his childhood when he was horrifically abused by his family and others in positions of trust. Yet despite this, Stuart is presented as endearing and surprisingly likable.
The biography has the effect of making people more aware of the social issue of homelessness and challenges some of the stereotypes that we might have of homeless people. It is a common belief that people are homeless through faults of their own, but after reading this account of Stuart’s life the reader sympathises with him and realises that he is not entirely to blame for everything that has gone wrong.
Who is ‘normal’ anyway?
‘Jessica Shore? Would you like to come through now?’ I handed mum my bag and scarf and grudgingly followed the short jolly woman across the room to the door boldly marked ‘assessments’. The room was claustrophobically small, just big enough to fit a desk, 2 chairs and one feeble looking shelf. We were forced to sit uncomfortably close to each other. I could smell her coffee breath infecting the air. ‘Right then Jessica, we are just going to carry out a few tests to find out what the problem is, ok Jessica?’ Her upbeat voice was beginning to infuriate me, why did she persist with this patronising tone and why was she saying my name like that? Does she think I don’t know my own name? Does she think I’m stupid?
It was an ear achingly cold morning as me and mum left the house, pacing towards our bright purple Nissan Micra. We had to leave five minutes early to scrape off the ice that had stubbornly welded itself to the front and back windscreens of the car. We sat in silence all the way to the assessment. I denied that anything was wrong with me. I wanted to convince mum to turn back but she was nervously concentrating on the early morning rush hour traffic.
Ok so I can’t dance. Elaborate movement just does not agree with me. I feel nothing but awkward and overly self conscious when in a club with my friends, desperately trying to control my gangly long limbs and shape them into some sort of movement in time to some sort of beat. I am envious as my friends effortlessly show off their ‘oh so cool’ dance moves, impressing the praying eyes of the opposite sex as I shy away into the darkest corner or flee to the bar to get yet another drink. I just don’t have rhythm! But that’s quite normal, right? I suppose it might not be completely normal that I find social situations intensely and embarrassingly awkward. I just can’t interact with new people and I unwillingly project an awkward and unfriendly persona. Who’s to say what ‘normal’ is anyway? Maybe I am just a warped version of ‘normal’...
‘Ok Jessica, thank you for completing that set of tests, I will write up a report and send it to you within two weeks, Bye Jessica! Safe journey home!’ I was relieved to leave that upbeat, patronising, constant name using woman’s office but now I had to worry about what that report would contain. Two and a half weeks later it arrived on my doormat. It was marked ‘confidential document’. I ripped it open.
‘SUMMARY’
‘The information gained during this assessment indicates that Miss Shore has the learning difficulty, ‘dyspraxia’.’
Great so now I’ll be known as the dyspraxia kid. The report continued on to a description:
‘The Dyspraxia Foundation describes the characteristics as follows: ‘Dyspraxia is generally recognised to be an impairment or immaturity of the organisation of movement. Associated with this may be problems of language, perception and thought’....’Physical activities are hard to learn, difficult to retain and generalise and can be hesitant and awkward in performance.’
The report went on to describe my childhood and why I may have acquired this ‘disability’. But it is basically unexplainable. Just pure ‘luck’.
So this is me. I now have a label. I am ‘Dyspraxia kid’.
It was an ear achingly cold morning as me and mum left the house, pacing towards our bright purple Nissan Micra. We had to leave five minutes early to scrape off the ice that had stubbornly welded itself to the front and back windscreens of the car. We sat in silence all the way to the assessment. I denied that anything was wrong with me. I wanted to convince mum to turn back but she was nervously concentrating on the early morning rush hour traffic.
Ok so I can’t dance. Elaborate movement just does not agree with me. I feel nothing but awkward and overly self conscious when in a club with my friends, desperately trying to control my gangly long limbs and shape them into some sort of movement in time to some sort of beat. I am envious as my friends effortlessly show off their ‘oh so cool’ dance moves, impressing the praying eyes of the opposite sex as I shy away into the darkest corner or flee to the bar to get yet another drink. I just don’t have rhythm! But that’s quite normal, right? I suppose it might not be completely normal that I find social situations intensely and embarrassingly awkward. I just can’t interact with new people and I unwillingly project an awkward and unfriendly persona. Who’s to say what ‘normal’ is anyway? Maybe I am just a warped version of ‘normal’...
‘Ok Jessica, thank you for completing that set of tests, I will write up a report and send it to you within two weeks, Bye Jessica! Safe journey home!’ I was relieved to leave that upbeat, patronising, constant name using woman’s office but now I had to worry about what that report would contain. Two and a half weeks later it arrived on my doormat. It was marked ‘confidential document’. I ripped it open.
‘SUMMARY’
‘The information gained during this assessment indicates that Miss Shore has the learning difficulty, ‘dyspraxia’.’
Great so now I’ll be known as the dyspraxia kid. The report continued on to a description:
‘The Dyspraxia Foundation describes the characteristics as follows: ‘Dyspraxia is generally recognised to be an impairment or immaturity of the organisation of movement. Associated with this may be problems of language, perception and thought’....’Physical activities are hard to learn, difficult to retain and generalise and can be hesitant and awkward in performance.’
The report went on to describe my childhood and why I may have acquired this ‘disability’. But it is basically unexplainable. Just pure ‘luck’.
So this is me. I now have a label. I am ‘Dyspraxia kid’.
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
The Deep End
Monday mornings are usually dreaded by most school children. After a pathetic two days off, the week of lessons, teasing, and possible tellings-off are about to roll around again. This was not a concern of mine. I craved and longed for the week to last longer. I didn’t care about being picked on in maths by purvey Mr Crompton, or about sitting awkwardly next to the boy that smelt in English or even about waking early and sulkily trudging to school. I just longed for Friday afternoons between one and three to be scribbled out from the timetable and disappear forever. Friday afternoons were ruined by swimming lessons. The build up to this occasion would begin on Thursday evenings when I would half-heartedly carry out my chores of washing up and cleaning my bedroom. Pieces of food would be carelessly left on plates, tea-stains still rimming the bottom of cups, all because my mind would be consumed with constant anxiety about what was to occur the next day. I will always remember one particularly humiliating swimming lesson which deepened and intensified my embarrassing fear of water. After lunch on a piercingly cold January afternoon my class was teamed with the girls from 7F to begin the walk, lined up in pairs, to the swimming pool. I was paired with Becky Mason who was my safety net and fellow non-swimmer. We would always stick to the back of the line in hope that we would somehow get lost and no one would ever notice. Our plan always failed. The teachers would cunningly place themselves down the line of students, one at the front, one in the middle, and unfortunately, one at the back. Fully equipped with hats, scarves, gloves and an unattractive shiny blue puffer jacket each, we arrived at the entrance to the swimming pool clenching our draw string rucksacks filled with our swimming kits. As we got closer to the pool the pungent smell of chlorine stung my nostrils and made my stomach churn.
Mr Taylor was a large overly muscled man who carried a look of arrogance and disapproval. He had an unusually deep voice that always felt the need to shout even when having a one on one conversation. His lack of sympathy and his uncaring manner made him the worst candidate for the job of swimming teacher. But he was. The two classes, including me and Becky Mason, congregated in the reception area of the leisure centre. Mr Taylor was giving us instructions to be good and respect the space of other swimmers blah blah blah and then he suddenly shouted, ‘YOU HAVE THREE MINUTES TO GET CHANGED AND BE AT THE SIDE OF THE POOL, GO!’Panic filled every girl as we rushed towards the changing rooms and began stripping off, holding towels around us whilst awkwardly putting on our swimming costumes hiding our bodies from the judging eyes of others. We quickly pinged on our hideous lime green swimming hats and hurried to the pool side. Like always we were split into groups, strong swimmers, OK swimmer, and non-swimmers. This group consisted solely of me and Becky Mason. But unlike usual he did not just ignore us, in fact he seemed to go out of his way to make a spiteful attempt to humiliate us. After having free time to swim around, or in our case trying to doggy paddle, Mr Taylor took a strong blow of his whistle and called the non-swimmers to the deep-end whilst the other swimmers grouped in the shallow end waiting to see what we would be made to do. Fear immediately shot through me as we lowered ourselves in. We were given a rubber ring to pathetically and frantically attempt to make our way across the full length of the pool. My humiliation grew when I was handed one side of a pole to cling onto whislt Mr taylor, holding the other side, guided me to the safety of the shallow end. Everybody was laughing. We were humiliated and didn’t understand why we were being punished for our lack of skills. I never attended that class again.
Mr Taylor was a large overly muscled man who carried a look of arrogance and disapproval. He had an unusually deep voice that always felt the need to shout even when having a one on one conversation. His lack of sympathy and his uncaring manner made him the worst candidate for the job of swimming teacher. But he was. The two classes, including me and Becky Mason, congregated in the reception area of the leisure centre. Mr Taylor was giving us instructions to be good and respect the space of other swimmers blah blah blah and then he suddenly shouted, ‘YOU HAVE THREE MINUTES TO GET CHANGED AND BE AT THE SIDE OF THE POOL, GO!’Panic filled every girl as we rushed towards the changing rooms and began stripping off, holding towels around us whilst awkwardly putting on our swimming costumes hiding our bodies from the judging eyes of others. We quickly pinged on our hideous lime green swimming hats and hurried to the pool side. Like always we were split into groups, strong swimmers, OK swimmer, and non-swimmers. This group consisted solely of me and Becky Mason. But unlike usual he did not just ignore us, in fact he seemed to go out of his way to make a spiteful attempt to humiliate us. After having free time to swim around, or in our case trying to doggy paddle, Mr Taylor took a strong blow of his whistle and called the non-swimmers to the deep-end whilst the other swimmers grouped in the shallow end waiting to see what we would be made to do. Fear immediately shot through me as we lowered ourselves in. We were given a rubber ring to pathetically and frantically attempt to make our way across the full length of the pool. My humiliation grew when I was handed one side of a pole to cling onto whislt Mr taylor, holding the other side, guided me to the safety of the shallow end. Everybody was laughing. We were humiliated and didn’t understand why we were being punished for our lack of skills. I never attended that class again.
Book Review of Julie Myerson's 'The Lost Child'.
‘The Lost Child’ tells the emotional story of Julie Myerson’s drug addicted son and the problems he causes within their family. In addition to this Myerson also explores the life of Mary Yelloly, a nineteenth century girl who died young. Her interest in this girl links to her son: they are both ‘lost children’. This contrast of biographical and autobiographical accounts is an unusual technique.
She uses direct and personal language in relation to Mary, addressing her as ‘you’, which shows how close she feels to the subject of her biography. Another note worthy technique is the abrupt shift from one genre to the other, which demonstrates how closely related the two subjects are in her mind. Myerson began by intending to write a biography but because of her personal difficulties, thoughts about her son began to interweave with the story of Mary. To some extent, the juxtaposition of the two stories gives more depth to the auto/biography genre. Myerson is aiming for a story which has more than personal importance. She is interested in the question of to what extent parents can keep their children safe. Mary’s parents could not keep her or her siblings from dying, and Myerson could not keep her son safe from drugs.
This book is controversial. It has been widely questioned whether it was right for her to expose her son in this way, however cathartic the writing of it may have been for her. In interviews with the media, she attempts to justify her actions by claiming that the book would provide the necessary shock that would bring her son to his senses.
She uses direct and personal language in relation to Mary, addressing her as ‘you’, which shows how close she feels to the subject of her biography. Another note worthy technique is the abrupt shift from one genre to the other, which demonstrates how closely related the two subjects are in her mind. Myerson began by intending to write a biography but because of her personal difficulties, thoughts about her son began to interweave with the story of Mary. To some extent, the juxtaposition of the two stories gives more depth to the auto/biography genre. Myerson is aiming for a story which has more than personal importance. She is interested in the question of to what extent parents can keep their children safe. Mary’s parents could not keep her or her siblings from dying, and Myerson could not keep her son safe from drugs.
This book is controversial. It has been widely questioned whether it was right for her to expose her son in this way, however cathartic the writing of it may have been for her. In interviews with the media, she attempts to justify her actions by claiming that the book would provide the necessary shock that would bring her son to his senses.
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
The Forbidden Fruit
Strawberries are my body’s poison. A forbidden luxury that has denied me its sweet satisfying taste. It took years of bafflement and worry to find the cause of my symptoms. Why was this happening to me? Why was my body rejecting me and WHY wouldn’t it go away?
After consumption, the poison would linger in my body until it decided to attack. On most occasions it would inconsiderately awake me from my comfortable deep sleep at a time that, frankly, doesn’t suit anyone. It began its routine with a forever irritating throbbing of the eye, followed shortly by the feeling of nausea. Most of the time, nausea may be associated with a light manageable hangover, possibly not even resulting in the act of vomiting but if it ends that way then you feel much better for it. Better out than in and all that. This was not the case for me. My nausea did, without fail, result in the act of vomiting and up to six or seven times. A dizzy feeling would consume me and my heart would gather speed as my body prepared for the ritual that was about to take place. My throat would expand and retch up my insides, projecting them a considerable distance across the room. After the third or fourth consecutive time my throat would become dry and sleep would beckon me back to its tempting world but the poison would persist and wouldn’t stop until it was fully satisfied with its cruel work.
The poison would usually be considerate enough to affect me in my own bed so I could be looked after and at least feel relatively safe. However, on one specific occasion it decided to attack at school when all the children, including me, were gathered on the carpet around Miss Jackson, awaiting story time. I merrily listened to the first half of ‘Burglar Bill’ absorbing myself into the exciting story when I was hit with the well known feeling of the ‘eye-throb’ and I knew too well what was coming next. I raised my hand.
‘Miss! Miss! I feel really ill, my eye hurts’.
Unaware of the messy situation Miss Jackson had to look forward to, she foolishly asked me to sit back down and tell her if it became worse. Of course, it did become worse. As I felt that familiar feeling creep up on my body I rushed to the front of the class to inform poor Miss Jackson. As I opened my mouth to speak, words failed to flow out. Instead, it was vomit. Vomit, on her shoes. Everything happened at a fast pace from that moment. We were suddenly in the girls’ toilets, me in a cubicle continuing the routine that the poison had inflicted on me and Miss Jackson with one sick drenched foot in the sink and her other being used to balance herself whilst consoling me at the same time.
Strawberries are alien to me now and I have been banned from the luxury of their taste and their texture. They are an enemy that I long to befriend. They are game that I cannot join in with. They are my forbidden fruit.
Monday, 5 October 2009
Book Review on Shappi Khorsandi's 'A beginner's guide to acting English'
The well known Iranian comedian Shappi Khorsandi writes a surprisingly emotional account of her childhood in her book, ‘A Beginners guide to acting English’. Her memoir reflects on the Iran-Iraq war and follows her traditional but endearing family as they begin their lives as immigrants in London.
Immigration is a recent social trend which is currently being explored in novels as well as memoirs like this one. For example Rose Tremain’s ‘The Road Home’ is a novel about the experience of a polish immigrant recently arrived in London. This novel is moving and sad so it was surprising that Khorsandi’s memoir of immigration takes a different approach. It deals with war, political intrigue and the defiance of Shappi’s journalist father and the tone is often comic and even light hearted at times. The role of comedy here may be to take the sting out of a frightening and serious topic and give the author a way of dealing with difficulties. It seems important to question the reliability of this memoir. Shappi Khorsandi applies large amounts of descriptive detail about her early childhood which could suggest that her accounts are partly fictionalised. In addition she has invented an omniscient narrator whose account is written in italics and who can relate events that the author could not possibly know about in detail.
Despite this, ‘A beginner’s guide to acting English’ is an enthralling book that is hard to put down and even, in parts, moved me to tears.
Immigration is a recent social trend which is currently being explored in novels as well as memoirs like this one. For example Rose Tremain’s ‘The Road Home’ is a novel about the experience of a polish immigrant recently arrived in London. This novel is moving and sad so it was surprising that Khorsandi’s memoir of immigration takes a different approach. It deals with war, political intrigue and the defiance of Shappi’s journalist father and the tone is often comic and even light hearted at times. The role of comedy here may be to take the sting out of a frightening and serious topic and give the author a way of dealing with difficulties. It seems important to question the reliability of this memoir. Shappi Khorsandi applies large amounts of descriptive detail about her early childhood which could suggest that her accounts are partly fictionalised. In addition she has invented an omniscient narrator whose account is written in italics and who can relate events that the author could not possibly know about in detail.
Despite this, ‘A beginner’s guide to acting English’ is an enthralling book that is hard to put down and even, in parts, moved me to tears.
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