Saturday 13th September 2025
Blog Page 2203

Blasphemy: The Bell Jar

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There is a point towards the end of The Bell Jar where Esther Greenwood is sitting at the funeral of a friend and she stops to consider her own existence with ‘I am, I am, I am’. Leave it to Sylvia Plath to use another person’s death to gloat that she had somehow made it through. Not only that, but, given the fact that the friend in question, a girl named Joan, is a far more fun and generally more interesting woman to say the least, you wouldn’t be alone in wishing that it was Esther in the coffin while Joan had a quick go at a John Clare impression.

But that’s The Bell Jar all over. ‘Look at me!’ Plath screams, in an autobiographical novel so thinly veiled that the pseudonym is practically invisible, ‘I’m alive! I’m miserable, but I’m alive!’ By the end of this ordeal of a book I was trying to find a gas oven of my own. It’s a practical ‘dummy’s guide to suicide’, and I mean the dummy part; Esther tries and fails to kill herself so many times, (hanging, self-harm, pills and a particularly enjoyable drowning attempt) that it stops being shocking, for shock is what she was going for. Shock was always what she was going for. All this crap about Nazi lampshades and fucking her father; she just couldn’t get over the look of her own words on the paper, and this self-indulgent book proves it.

For those spared this diary of a nervous breakdown, The Bell Jar follows Esther’s attempts to become a successful magazine journalist on a scholarship in New York. It all sounds nice and civilised to me, but no. Not for Esther. She’s depressed, and bored, and suffocated, and has to go for electric shocks to get her all perky again. Attempting to portray her inner darkness, Plath instead trivialises her pain and asks the reader for something; sympathy, judgment maybe, it’s hard to tell. Instead, you’ll be rolling your eyes with disdain so frequently that someone will think you’re having a stroke.

There can be no doubt that Sylvia, and by association Esther, had a difficult time with life, but writing about it in an almost casual way is in no way the best method of expressing that pain. A few more hugs, and a warmer mother-daughter relationship might have made this book into Sylvia in the City; a sort of Devil Wears Prada kind of thing. Instead, we get a pill-popping bore. Would you trust a writer who couldn’t even drown herself? Thought not.

Historical Histrionics

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Its title notwithstanding, Apology for the Woman Writing has less to do with ‘the woman writing’ and much more to do with woman’s inability to write in early-modern France. It is a novel about those people living in the gaps between great writers.

Its protagonist, Marie de Gournay inherits a medium sized ‘gentleman’s library’ from her recently deceased father, reading through the two hundred or so volumes electrified by the thought that ‘behind each individual book was a mind’. Whilst most are indifferent to Marie’s literary inclinations, her Uncle, Louis, seems to encourage it, bringing her new volumes on each of his regular visits to the family home. The watershed moment, though, occurs in 1584, when Marie comes into contact with the essays of Michel de Montaigne.

She instantly becomes obsessed by both his writing and his person. On first reading his essays, she faints. From then on her sole aim in life is to become Montaigne’s disciple. He is flattered but weary; after she stabs herself in a desperate show of loyalty, he declares her his ‘fille d’alliance’ to stave off further bloodshed. After his death, Madame de Montaigne graciously allows her to edit a new edition of his essays, which she takes as an opportunity to lauch her literary career.

From then on it’s a descent into the isolation of an oncoming death. The servant Jamyn gradually becomes more important to the author so that by the end of the novel we are firmly looking through her eyes. This is not necessarily a good thing. It is plagued by what is a problem throughout the novel – a constant attempt to generalise the emotional effect of a moment within the terms of the story as a whole. The author draws one away from whatever might be happening to point out its place in the greater scheme of the novel. This frustrates, only serving to undermine any sense of intimacy the reader might share with Marie or Jamyn. The overall effect then is one of historical biography masquerading as historical fiction.

In a recent review of Alastair Campbell’s new novel, Jenny Diski wrote that ‘people’s lives come, if you must, alive in a piece of writing if the writer can make the writing work. The words story, colour and texture are no more helpful to a writer than key trigger, downward curve and plunge are to someone in the grip of a depression without a way to use them effectively.’ Perhaps Diski should take her own advice.

One star

 

Dubious Stains

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You can always tell when I’ve been pulling all-nighters by the stains on my bed. (Peanut butter stains, I mean – there’s never time to make any other kind of stain.) Curling up in bed with a spoon and 454g of crunchy Sun-Pat almost makes constitutional law bearable.

That’s why, when in her second essay collection ‘At Large and At Small’ Anne Fadiman writes how she “frequently took a pint of Haagen-Daazs Chocolate Chip to bed, with four layers of paper towels wrapped around the container to prevent digital hypothermia”, I knew I’d found a role model.

The talented Fadiman, who is Francis Writer-in-Residence at Yale and is renowned for her nonfiction, is probably one of the few people in the world who can muse lovingly about ice cream for 18 pages, while still being funny and fascinating. Just as engaging are the other eleven essays in the book. From the fizzily optimistic first half to the calmly nostalgic second, the book demonstrates her mastery of the familiar essay.

“Today’s readers,” Fadiman writes, “Encounter plenty of critical essays (more brain than heart) and plenty of personal essays (more heart than brain), but not many familiar essays (equal measures of both).”

What she modestly neglects to mention is that her essays have both in spades. Fadiman’s feelings and reminiscences flit through her writing, as when she describes her brother using liquid nitrogen in pursuit of the perfect ice cream, or talks about her family’s response to September 11, or even in an off-handed remark about losing her virginity in an essay on coffee.

Rather than weighing her prose down however, these personal elements are effortlessly blended with unexpected facts trawled from science, history, literature, and so on in a buoyant gush of enthusiasm.

Even her more intellectually-oriented pieces, such as one on literary culture wars, or on the semiotics of the American flag, share the same dry wit, amiable rambling and homespun conversational tone, mixed with the odd word that sends you scurrying to the dictionary. It’s like talking to a reference librarian on cannabis.

Of course, not everyone likes conversation for its own sake, and if you’re the type who scoffs at columnists, opinion writers and bloggers, this book is probably not for you. But for the rest, At Large and At Small is the perfect way to while away the hours. I’d even recommend it above peanut butter – at least there are no calories, and also (unless you really like Anne Fadiman) no stains.

Five stars

 

 

This Year’s Models

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In an anonymous brick building, 10 minutes walk from Appleford station, is the most remarkable museum in Oxfordshire. Pendon Museum was set up by an Australian who fell in love with the beauty of the Vale of the White Horse in the mid-30s. He was horrified by the demolition of its beautiful cottages and started to create a series of precise and perfect models of cottages in the area.

Time for an example: imagine a card model of a half-timbered vicarage, about eight inches by four inches by three. Imagine how small creeper leaves in proportion to it would be. Now imagine that the front is covered with Virginia creeper, and each leaf is cut out of tissue paper, painted and stuck on individually. Now imagine that each tile is painted with a slightly different mix of watercolours.

Now imagine a landscape for the cottages to sink into, the size of a JCR, of Berkshire in August 1930: villages, railways, watercress beds, mills, and a hill fort, all as carefully made. No cottage took less than a weekend to make, most took months of part-time work.

Although seventy-five volunteers have worked on the scene since it was started in 1954, it is still not finished: about a third is plywood framing waiting for something to support.

A technical triumph, then, and a rather obsessive one. But more than that; it is beautiful. The colours are carefully balanced and adjusted to the lighting, the contours of the land planned to surprise visitors. Villages that didn’t seem to be there appear from behind tiny hills. The range of detail leaves you squinting, eyes pressed up against the glass: hollyhocks, farm machinery, rabbit warrens. There is wit, too: I was told that the railway station was placed where Didcot is, to replace it, ‘because Didcot is ugly, and we could do better’.

And, when you think you’ve got used to all that they can do, the museum staff turn the museum lights off and lights inside the cottages on. You see the bookcases and pictures inside, and you look down from a ridge, into a valley, going from a wet muddy autumn of squelchy leaves underfoot into a perfect summer night. Amazing.

OUSU election delayed in manifesto blunder

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OUSU have had to delay their Presidential Election by one week because a candidate’s manifesto wasn’t published.

OUSU’s Returning Officer, Madeline Stanley, confirmed that the election has been delayed because John Maher’s manifesto wasn’t printed in the official election booklet.

The booklet itself, which was published inside copies of The Oxford Student on Thursday, has been recalled by OUSU.

Stanley refused to comment further on the matter, but said she would be giving more details about what has happened after the weekend.

Given stipulations in the OUSU election rule-book, the four presidential candidates are unable to comment on the situation. However, a number of students have expressed surprise and disappointment on hearing news of the delay.

Nick Coxon, a second-year PPEist commented, “That the elections have been postponed is a regrettable development. The guys at OUSU must be furious — and quite rightly.”

Another second-year student, who wished to remain anonymous, added, “I’m incredulous that the elections are being delayed a whole week, especially after all the hard work everyone’s put in.

“It’s going to be massively inconvenient for all the candidates and officials, and even for voters.

“This could reverse the turnout gains they expected from online voting, and it’ll probably change the results too – some candidates are going to suffer from this more than others.”

Lewis Iwu, current President of the Students’ Union, declined to comment on the matter.

First Night Review: Through the Leaves

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A female tripe butcher Martha (Ed Pearce) has been adopted as the lover of a drunken, women- pursuing factory- worker Otto (Barney Norris). The play
opens with Martha writing in her diary; Otto looks at a porn magazine.

Readings from the diary, some recorded, some spoken, appear at intervals through the play, ceasing the movement of the drama, allowing the thoughts of Martha to be revealed. The punctuation is stated – exclamation mark
full stop – revealing a consciousness of hard won education and the most pathetic of her worries.

Martha is a successful businesswoman, apparently independent, occasionally hinting at successful romances in the past. Yet she is emotionally completely dependent on Otto. Otto’s emotions have no reliance on Martha. He uses her as something to control, whether sexually, or, as his repeated absences show, to exploit her need for him. Yet he is worried about the ‘rules’; the fact a man pays for a Ball, the fact that she earns more than him. Maybe the rejection of male chauvinism, of the male reluctance to accept female success, is a little tired by now, but this play manages to turn it round by contravening the rules of twentieth century cynicism by giving Martha complete and unconditional love.

Ed Pearce manages to play out the complications of this character with her accustomed subtlety, at moments making her engagement painful and uncomfortable for the audience. It is those instances of sudden nuance at the end of a sentence which she does best, when we suddenly click into her pleasure or pain.

Barney Norris has a role which, although less complicated, requires almost by that fact great skill. There can be no reliance for him in a glistening eye or a quavering voice to gain our appreciation. He succeeds by not becoming an overstated lout, he has his outbursts of foul language, and his complaints about the failed femininity of Martha, but he lets the audience know that the man inside is rather small.

Alice Hamilton transposes the closed world of the play into the closed world of the Burton Taylor with her accustomed skill . She choreographs beautifully the relationship between Martha and Otto – sexual engagement but an always destabilizing personal engagement; the relationship between butcher’s shop and living room; the dramatic interchange and the poignant diary monologues.

For working class social drama skilfully acted and crafted to bring out full sadness, go to the intimate space of the BT.

 

Second Look 5th Wk: Cuppers Drama

The Lucky Ones
Tuesday of 6th week, doors open at 5.15pm

Harry Potter and the Ridiculous Runthrough
Thursday of 6th week, doors open at 8.30pm

Spectacles
Fridayof 6th week, doors open at 11.45am

Cluster
Thursday of 6th week, doors open at 2.05pm

Sweeney Agonistes
Friday of 6th week, doors open at 3.45pm

All performances take place at the Burton Taylor Studio, near Gloucester Green

Travel: Israel

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While Israel is a country best known for making TV news headlines, it is at the same time a thriving tourist destination, welcoming around two million visitors last year. The negative press coverage also disguises the fact that, in some respects, Israel is a normal Western country, although its amazing historical, religious and cultural riches make it sufficiently different from a typical Western country for it to be an unusual and worthwhile place to visit.

Israel is exceptionally diverse for a country that’s roughly the size of Wales. The Galilee has hilly woodland; the coastal plains are grass or sand dunes; in the south, there’s the mountainous Negev desert, whilst at the northern tip there’s lush vegetation near the source of the river Jordan.

Although mostly Jewish, Israel does boast a wide range of cultures. Its Jewish population is extremely diverse, as most are immigrants from all over the world, and it has an Arab population of 16%, as well as many smaller ethnic groups and religions. The Bedouin is one of these peoples, a fascinating people who used to live a nomadic desert life. Another minority group in Israel is the Druze, a secretive religious community with a thousand-year old history, beginning as an offshoot of Islam but adding some of their own prophets and leaders.

One of the most curious sects in Israel would be the African Hebrew Israelites of Jerusalem, who are a group originating from the US of families who claim spiritual and/or literal descent from the ancient Israelites. They are vegan, wear only natural fibres, and celebrate biblical festivals among others.

If there is one honeypot destination in Israel, it is Jerusalem. Jerusalem owes its renown to being a holy site for the three Abrahamic faiths, and is a fascinating place to visit regardless of whether you are a practising Jew, Christian or Muslim. Admittedly, the places of worship are not as architecturally imposing as, say, the cathedrals of Italy or the mosques of Istanbul, but they are nonetheless worth seeing – and the experiencing so many holy sites from different religions and eras in the same city is unique.

Aside from the touristic holy sites, Jerusalem has a special atmosphere that is very hard to describe and must be experienced. The Old City, for example, has Jewish, Christian, Muslim and Armenian quarters – you can walk through all of them in a couple of hours and get a flavour of the different foods, dress, architecture and lifestyles customary to each quarter.

Further afield are the two popular destinations of Tel Aviv and Eilat. Tel Aviv is Israel’s big city, situated on the coast and much livelier than Jerusalem. It has a huge clubbing scene (much of it on the beach), and generally feels like the most cosmopolitan place in Israel. Eilat is the most popular Israeli holiday destination among Israelis. It’s known for its beaches, coral reef, diving, bars and clubs. The road to Eliat is interesting in itself, as the 4-hour journey winds through the beautiful, sparsely-populated desert.

Two of Israel’s most interesting destinations are, of course, the biblical Sea of Galilee and the Dead Sea. Situated an hour east of Northern Israel’s largest city, Haifa, the Kinneret (Sea of Galilee) is home to many Christian sites connected to Jesus’ early ministry and miracles. The Dead Sea, the saltiest sea and the lowest point on Earth, rests in a rift valley, creating a slightly apocalyptic landscape. As advertised, you can float on the water and try out various muds that, allegedly, have magical properties on your skin.

Israel is in many ways a Western country, albeit with more unusual attractions than most. However it is also clear that Israeli attitudes are fairly different to, for example, those common to Britain. There’s not much show of British reserve – it’s acceptable in Israel to be loud and say exactly what you think. This also comes across in the friendliness and openness towards strangers. It’s not unusual to start talking to someone on a bus and end up with them inviting you to shabbat – Jewish Friday night dinner.

While Israel is a small country, one that can be covered completely in the space of two weeks, it offers a fantastic range of experiences. Anything could be round the next corner – an archaeological dig next to a shopping centre, or a ski slope an hour away from a sunny beach. This, the sheer unexpectedness of what turns up, is what makes Israel such a fascinating and unique destination.

 

Restaurant Review: Oxford Organic Burger Company

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The burger revolution is upon us. The old favourite has been reincarnated with trendy buzzwords such as ‘free range’ and ‘locally reared’, and a price tag to match. Jumping whole-heartedly onto the sesame-topped bandwagon is The Oxford Organic Burger Company Ltd (and you know they mean business by the capital letter of the definite article).

Now, I feel obliged to declare that my own relationship with the burger has a shady past. When I was too young to know better, (though old enough to look upon the meagre Happy Meal with distain), I regarded a termly pilgrimage to the golden arches as gastronomic bliss. The retina-bruising strip lights and sticky plastic benches scarred with pre-ban fag burns just seemed a part of the experience. As you can see, the revolution is long overdue.

Step inside the Cowley restaurant and the operative word ‘organic’ is neatly extended to the well thought out décor; with acres of slate, exposed brick, and log stools which lend a Faraway Tree feel to the bar. When the food appears on thick wooden slabs crudely hacked into plate-like form, one can almost imagine this as dinner at the Shire opposite Frodo Baggins. Until the organic Heinz tomato ketchup makes its entrance, that is.

A good burger with chips is a beautiful thing. It is an emblem of simple pleasure in a world filled with exams, job applications, student loans, and decisions about which pub to frequent. Its reassuring consistency is something to find solace in when feeling fragile. You know there will be meat. There will be bread. There will be deep-fried potato.

If you feel able to cope with an additional ingredient the Oxford Blue burger (£8 inc. chips) comes highly recommended, providing you can forget its painfully punned title. The lump of meat comes adorned with oozing stilton which seems inexplicably attracted to chins and white t-shirts.

I must add that the chips here are exceptional; the perfect size with a skins-on earthiness; and on my numerous visits, never have I been subjected to the frequent, heart-sinking disappointment that is The Underdone Chip.

It pains me to say that the milkshake sampled was, quite frankly, a letdown. Admittedly my childish nostalgic glee had driven my levels of expectation into orbit (as did the astronomical £4 price tag), but the grainy, icy, tasteless cream was a poor effort.

It seems they have mastered the art of grilled and fried produce, but not yet frozen, for my iced yoghurt dessert (£3.50) was a similar disappointment. Though it proclaimed to be passionfruit, I had trouble discerning any flavour other than that sickly synthetic taste which is now validated under the ambiguous umbrella term ‘tropical’.

The Oxford Organic Burger Company also do breakfast (10am till midday), cocktails, and a stonking weekday lunch offer where £6 will bag you burger, chips and beer; and who doesn’t love a lunchtime drink? If this doesn’t tempt you to join the revolution, nothing will.

 

Interview: Quentin Blake

Walking into the Oxford Union, the first thing we noticed about Quentin Blake was the little white plimsolls poking from underneath the table. Slightly unconventional considering he was wearing a suit and it was snowing outside.

Delightful though it was to see the curious choice of footwear, it was not entirely unsurprising, as children’s writer Roald Dahl used to note this feature of his wardrobe: “here’s old Quent, he’s going out for dinner in his plimsolls!'” When speaking to Blake, it’s hard to keep eye contact, as his hands seem to constantly sketch out his thoughts. His hands are just as expressive as his words. That, perhaps, is the secret to his success as a popular illustrator for almost half a century.

Most renowned for his collaboration with Dahl, Blake illustrated more than twenty of his books. Collaboration is, indeed, the right word for their working relationship, as his drawings have become synonymous with Dahl’s work. In fact, editions illustrated by other artists have been greeted with disdain, while the characters in film adaptations of the books stray from Blake’s depictions at their peril.

Having been put together by their shared publisher, what started as a working relationship eventually developed into a close friendship held together by their shared vision of the finished product; “with the Dahl books I would take them down and see what he thought of them. He mostly said ‘Quent always gets it right’. I didn’t quite always get it right” Blake says, in a typically modest fashion.

Blake’s persistence in doing his character’s justice is what makes his and Dahl’s style unique. By the end of the book, the combination of story and drawings means that you are fully acquainted with all aspects of the character, something which Blake himself discovered.

“By the time you’re doing the final illustrations of the book you feel you know what that person looks like” he says. “If you look at the rough drawings you’ve started off with, you realise they weren’t quite like that; it’s as if you’ve got to know the characters by drawing them”.

Blake’s drawings are notorious for their scribbled nature. “I think I came to it almost by accident really, by doing rough drawings and finding they were better than the finished drawings,” Blake says, noting how the spontaneous quality of his work is its strength. He describes the process involved in his drawings, where he begins with an initial sketch, which evolves into the finished piece- complete yet nevertheless maintaining the endearing appeal of his images.

Quentin Blake is always drawing, the sketchy nature of his work ideal for constantly scribbling down new creations. In fact, The Life of Birds, one of his favourite books, was created from a sequence of random drawings: “and then I thought ‘perhaps I’ll just make a book out of it'” he muses.

As we speak to him, we can understand that his restless hands are permanently at work at what he repeatedly refers to as ‘the cooking process’, and it is for this reason that we can believe the image of his jotting pad beside his phone that he describes. “I’ve got a whole collection of stuff,” he says, “I don’t know if they’ll ever get published, called Telephone drawings”.

Blake, however, is never out of work, having written many of his own books, and recently illustrated David Walliams’ new book, The Boy in the Dress. When we bring it up, he smiles wryly, saying “it’s nice to be able to illustrate for somebody who’s half your age!”

On mentioning the controversy surrounding the children’s book, which seems to imply a level of autobiography, thus suggesting that Walliams himself, a proclaimed lothario, was himself struggling with his sexuality. Blake smiles: “I didn’t know there was any”. We leave it at that, not wanting to embark upon a transvestite-based conversation with this sweet plimsoll clad man.

Unlike other artists who try and justify their skill through treating their work as culturally significant, Blake is keen to deny any great talent on his part; “You can’t think about it, you just have to start drawing and seeing what you discover.” His keenness to bring art to the masses has led to his participation in the annual Big Draw, and his close association with a new museum of illustrations based in Dulwich.

We ask Blake what else he has lined up for the future. With Dahl’s granddaughter, Sophie’s new writing career, we suggest that he might be tempted to continue the Dahl-Blake tradition with the inspiration of the BFG. “Well I’d certainly consider it! I think she’s making out alright with the illustrator she’s got actually!”

He is, however, eager to continue his work on literary classics. Having enjoyed great success with Quentin Blake’s Christmas Carol, (“that title was not my idea!” he is quick to establish), he would be keen to try some more Dickens (“I’m a great admirer”, he says).

After that, who knows what to expect from a man with a distinctive drawing style and a catalogue of much-loved books which are a permanent feature of most people’s shelves. Quentin Blake has been a part of the lives of millions of people, and he has no intention of stopping at the grand age of seventy six.