Sunday 8th June 2025
Blog Page 475

Football’s American-style statistical revolution

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The 2017-18 Premier League season may go down as one of the most significant in football history. Manchester City, led by legendary manager Pep Guardiola, broke Premier League records for biggest winning margin, most consecutive wins, most points, most goals, and best goal difference. This level of sustained brilliance was unprecedented and set a new benchmark for top-flight success.

However, the introduction of the expected goals (xG) metric on BBC’s Match of the Day programme that season was arguably even more revolutionary for the footballing world. Statistical data was included in the mainstream football conversation, at a time when it was already a staple of American sports. In the US, the analytics revolution had started with ‘Moneyball’ in Major League Baseball (MLB), but has since become a key part of the other Big Four sports, including the National Basketball Association (NBA).

Following the installation of player-tracking cameras in all NBA arenas in 2013, basketball has incorporated data analysis into the decision-making process for resting players, recruitment, and in-game coaching. For instance, testing players’ saliva became commonplace as a way to gauge their fatigue levels. Shot maps, which showed the percentage of shots that were made, out of those taken, from each area of the court were used by coaches to determine which shots were most efficient. One of the revolutionary changes in the way basketball was played, the increased reliance on the three-point shot, owed much to calculations of the expected points metric from different areas of the floor.

The recent stats revolution of football has coincided with the rise of data-collection services such as Opta Sports. Liverpool FC, the Premier League leaders, have famously taken a statistics-based approach to transfers, as their American owners have encouraged the use of data in transfer decisions; the club’s owner, John W. Henry, is also the owner of the Boston Red Sox, an MLB team, and has brought the Moneyball mentality across the pond. Much like in the NBA, data analysis has not just been used for recruitment but has also caused an evolution in the way football is played. Crossing, once a prominent tactic in English football, has been shunned in favour of ground passes as the data has shown the latter to be more effective in chance creation. Additionally, the popularity of long-range shooting has declined, since long shots are unlikely to result in a goal, even for specialists in the art like Ruben Neves.

Sporting data, however, is not homogeneous across different sports. Kirk Goldsberry, who is credited with leading the NBA’s statistical revolution, draws a clear distinction between the probabilistic data found in baseball and the cartographical data in basketball. While stop-start sports, such as baseball, are better-suited to analytics, dynamic sports, such as football or basketball, are better approached in a different way. Since spatial positioning is as integral to football as it is to basketball, football has much to learn from the NBA’s usage of cartography, such as shot maps. Premier League teams could use empirical data analysis to determine the zones from which each player shoots most accurately and incorporate the results into their tactical plan. Given that out-of-context discrete data, such as assist counts, is often useless for making qualitative judgements, in both football and basketball, it is time for the Premier League to follow the NBA’s reliance on contextual data. For example, football could place a heavier emphasis on efficiency over raw numbers in the case of goals, by looking at the deviation from xG when judging a striker’s effectiveness. The use of data analysis in football may be more difficult, given how the passages of play are not as easily segmented as in the MLB or NBA, but many insights from the MLB or NBA world can still be implemented in the sport.

Although data analysis in football may never reach the level found in the MLB, NBA or National Football League (NFL) due to its more fluid nature, football should seek to close the gap. Given the fine margins that make the difference in the sport, insights found in the data could well convert a loss into a key win.

The rise of medical science in football in recent years has allowed players to stay at peak fitness throughout the season. Now it is time to build on that scientific progress by placing greater emphasis on in-game data analysis.


Image credit: MMAston

A country without libraries: what we are missing

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You might think that working in a library would be a nice, peaceful job. That’s what I thought too. After spending two years working in public libraries, I’ve realised that I couldn’t have been more wrong. 

Let me start by setting the record straight. Libraries aren’t just about books. They’re about the communities they serve. Of course, one way that they serve those communities is by providing unrestricted access to the joy of reading. But they also offer a technological lifeline to those living in digital poverty. They provide public health services to those who are alone. They deliver free, educational activities for families to enjoy. Above all else, they open minds and provide people of all ages with a chance to dream. We need our libraries – now, more than ever. Let me explain why.

In 2018, one in ten households in the UK were without WiFi, and 12% of all households didn’t own a computer. Thirty years ago, not having WiFi or a computer wouldn’t have been an issue. Fast forward to the present day, and digital poverty is a real problem. Many job application processes are now entirely digitalised. The process of applying for universal credit is carried out most easily online, and you need an email account even if you’re applying over the phone. Without libraries, some of the most vulnerable people in our society would be left behind, unable to engage in the technological revolution that has swept the world. Public library services up and down the country offer a lifeline to those without computers in their homes, not only by providing access to one, but moreover by promoting digital literacy within their communities. Need help setting up an email account, using a scanner or completing those online applications? Not a problem, the library staff are on hand to help. For many, going to a library isn’t a choice: it’s a necessity. 

Libraries don’t just provide resources. Perhaps more importantly, they provide an opportunity for human connection. You see, as well as offering a technological lifeline, libraries are also on the frontline in the battle against loneliness in our communities. At the minute, we all know something of what it feels like to be isolated and alone. Most of us are lucky. We know that this isolation is only temporary, and we have friends and family who are just a phone call away. 

Yet, the reality for many is different, and isolation isn’t temporary for all of us. 

Imagine having absolutely no one. Imagine living away from family and friends, or even having no family or friends at all. The emotional toll of loneliness is clear, but there’s an underacknowledged physical health impact too. Social isolation has been proven to increase the likelihood of mortality by 26% by the Campaign to End Loneliness. When you couple that with the fact that those experiencing chronic loneliness are 50% more likely to call the emergency services, reducing loneliness becomes not just a moral obligation, but a necessity. So, how do libraries combat loneliness in our communities? By bringing people together. From board game nights to knitting groups, from bereavement support sessions to reading groups for people with dementia, libraries facilitate connection. They give those who would otherwise be victims of isolation somewhere to go, something to do, and someone to talk to. By doing so, they’re not only changing people’s lives – they’re reducing the burden on our NHS and social care teams too. You really can’t put a price on that.

The perception of libraries is often that they’re places geared to serve the elderly. But libraries also provide parents with a safe space in which they can encourage their children to dream. Over the last two years, I’ve been involved in family craft sessions, and a coding project which introduced young people to the opportunities that exist in the world of technology. I’ve seen libraries transformed into hubs of witchcraft and wizardry when hosting Harry Potter book nights, and young people invited into a lair of dungeons, dragons and discovery for our annual Halloween fright night. Why does this matter? Libraries are spaces where memories are made, where dreams are cultivated, and imaginations unlocked. They open up doors in the minds of young people, and show them that anything is possible. 

If you can’t already tell, I love libraries. What I love about them most is the fact that all of the opportunities I’ve listed, and the many more that I haven’t, are open to everyone. As a public service, libraries are driven by a duty to serve, not a financial need. They provide truly magical opportunities to people who otherwise may not be able to afford them, helping to tackle social inequality along the way. 

If there’s one thing you take away from this article, let it be these next few words: libraries are about so much more than books. A world without libraries is a world where people are left behind, and those in the greatest need are forgotten. The doors to our libraries may be closed at the moment, but they must not stay closed forever. 

‘The Last Five Years’: discussing adaptation, distance and theatre’s survival

Imagine if you could see how your relationships would end as soon as you started them. In The Last Five Years, this premise is explored – the audience sees the relationship between Cathy and Jamie develop and disintegrate, out of chronological order. If you were hoping for a spoiler alert, the first song ruins their relationship’s fate… Unfortunately, the cast and crew of Oxford’s production of The Last Five Years couldn’t see coronavirus coming. They’ve switched to a virtual production – which is airing on 9th May 2020 at 7:30pm.

I spoke to the cast and crew. Imogen Albert, a first year Music student at Oriel College, directs. Harvey Dovell makes his debut as a producer; he studies Chemistry at New College – hopefully he’s good at gauging chemistry between actors! Livi van Warmelo, the Music Director, is a Music student at St Anne’s. Cathy is played by Maggie Moriarty, a History student at St Hilda’s. Peter Todd, who plays Jamie, is a chemist at Jesus College – he previously played Mark Cohen in RENT. Other impressive theatrical credits within the group include Livi’s role as the Stroppy Hedgehog in Alice in Wonderland at the age of three!

Originally, the musical was scheduled to be performed as a garden play during the Trinity term. The move to a virtual performance, then, is quite a jump. Livi describes this as a result of “our sheer combined stubbornness” – she and Imogen pitched the concept change to Harvey. Despite his initial scepticism, he was won over by the enthusiasm of cast and crew. One of the many hurdles was how to make the show available. While there are many resources available to aid distribution, none were perfect – in the end, Harvey “ended up making a custom system integrated within the 00Productions website that would allow people to easily access the show while still abiding by all the rights stipulations”.

Rehearsals have been harder than initially anticipated. Lagging video calls, limited spaces and a delay in creative feedback have caused frustration but Livi gives an example: “delays mean that we can never play in sync so then the actors have to work with a piano track, which has in turn preempted and predicted how they’re going to phrase” lines. Maggie shares another perspective; this recording has “in a way led to the music being the driving force behind everything… once you have decided to breathe somewhere and do a slight giggle in the recording- you have to include it when you come to film the scene – almost like the singing Maggie or Peter becomes the director the next day”.

The Last Five Years focuses on the relationship between Cathy and Jamie in non-chronological order. They start at opposite ends of the relationship and work to the beginning or end respectively. For a play that is based so heavily on relationships, it must have been a struggle to reflect this through technology. Maggie says that “one of the most different and most trying things was figuring out how to translate the Cathy I had begun to craft from a stage imagining to a one on screen”. This is a struggle on multiple levels – she has to “figure out how to connect with the audience through the lens, but also a way in which I was able to fully immerse myself into her as character when filming and inhabiting my house, an environment so intrinsically to do with me and my family that made it hard at first compared to how natural it can feel on stage”. Peter agrees and continues that “the largest difference is that the film setup feels so much more intimate – the emotions, the character and the events of the show, while broadly conveyed the same, must be expressed in a way that makes sense on film. It’s been a really exciting challenge to figure out the best way to connect with the audience through the camera”. 

Livi addresses the issue of showing a couple’s relationship when they can’t be together (for some strange reason, Peter and Maggie weren’t willing to commit to leaving their families and finding a suitable location in which to isolate for the show!) – “having been in the same place and interacted exactly once in person, we knew from that photoshoot that we found a really believable partnership. The thing is though, is that Cathy and Jamie’s relationship in the show is socially distant – they share a time/place setting exactly once in the middle of the show, and so it really all hinges on the build-up and emotional pay-off created by the cast”. Reflecting on the photoshoot, Peter says “Maggie and I met, very briefly, before the lockdown was announced – she was extremely lovely”. How fortunate that promotional photos were taken then – otherwise, who knows what zoom-based monstrosities we’d be presented with?! Imogen expands further on the distance between characters, rightfully acknowledging that the camera’s perspective gives us “insight into moments that the characters experience which don’t require them to necessarily have interacted directly, and that is what makes this show work so well under these circumstances”.

There is already a DVD version of The Last Five Years, starring Anna Kendrick and Jeremy Jordan. What makes an Oxford production different under these cricumstances? For Peter, it’s how Cathy and Jamie are portrayed; “I think Maggie’s Cathy is an idealist and a dreamer, but she is also grittier than any other Cathys that I have come across, and I love the way that this impacts their relationship dynamic… I think we’ve done more work to highlight Jamie’s flaws than the film did; our version explores his obsessions, his narcissism and blind-optimism beyond the more cheeky and lovable Jamie that is presented in the film”. Harvey looks at the editing process as an example of difference; “especially as I am also the editor… there is a large scope for creative input and a small thing such as the timing of a cut can give new meaning to a moment”. Livi develops this further, saying that “it was important for me that this show was a sort of form-blend between stage and screen, combining the excitement of a live performance with the changed medium of a film”.  Following up, Imogen concludes that “in this sense it’s more a story of Cathy and a story of Jamie, and they happen to be two paths that cross, rather than a story of Cathy and Jamie together”.

It’s often believed that there are two ‘teams’ within fans of The Last Five Years – supporters of Cathy and fans of Jamie. Our cast and crew have more nuanced opinions. Livi is “musically, absolutely Jamie, he has all the best songs. Morally, you have to stick with Cathy because she gets a really rubbish deal in the long run. In reality, neither”. Imogen continues that “Peter who plays Jamie provides such a real and powerful performance this only adds to it.  However, his disregard for Cathy really is awful and in that sense I can’t ever fully be on his side, while at the same time Cathy is hard to get behind for many reasons, even though Maggie’s performance is equally as powerful”.

Many shows have been cancelled or postponed due to the current situation. Livi has a lot of sympathy: “getting a show cancelled sucks. Genuinely. It’s a really hard thing to have something that you’ve put your heart and soul into (which is mostly the case with theatre-types, we’re a dedicated bunch) be pulled away outside of your control” but focuses on the new availability of shows online as a source of inspiration. Imogen reminds us of the importance of communication, saying that “just talking with people in your situation and who share your passion for theatre can really make a difference and being able to get excited about possibilities that are to come, or watching all the great theatre that is now being released will really help”. Harvey continues that “theatre survives, it always does, and there will be a resurgence of effort into shows when we do come back and I can’t wait to see what people come out with then”. Hope – it seems – endures.

St Hilda’s students donate food left in College to local food banks

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Students and staff at St Hilda’s have been making use of food left in college to support local food banks struggling due to the coronavirus pandemic.

The project, led by student Kamran Sharifi, aims to make use of the food left by students over the vacation in the college kitchens.

Aided by fellow students Toto Gill and James Cockayne, the group set up a spreadsheet and posted it to the St Hilda’s JCR page, allowing those not in college to indicate their preference for whether their food was used in the scheme. Head Porter Peter Marston provided his van to distribute the food.

Kamran Sharifi told Cherwell how the scheme came about: “The other day I had the good fortune of chancing upon three Cornettos and some cranberry juice whilst raiding the SCR pantry fridge, and having rooted around college for a bit it’s obvious that there’s loads of food left here.

“Sadly, it’s likely that most people won’t be back at St. Hilda’s for a long time, so a lot of this food will go off and go to waste. Following on from the amazing charity work that we’ve already done as a college during this corona period (led by Holly Jackson, Jane Bennett and Izzy Davies), we’ve got another opportunity to reduce food waste and help those in need in the community.”

James Cockayne added: “My role in the operation was fairly simple. I helped go through kitchens and divide food into things we could donate and stuff we couldn’t, and then prepare it to be taken to be donated.

“Throughout my time in Oxford, and indeed even more so during this period of pandemic, the privilege of being able to study here has become very apparent. As students, we live in comfortable gated communities in a city with huge wealth inequality. I think the motivation for this food donation was to try our best to do our bit for those who live in Oxford who are struggling at this time, and redirect what would have been waste into something more positive.”

St Hilda’s staff have also been helping the community. A spokesperson said: “At St Hilda’s, we are happy to have been able to help with local efforts to support the NHS in a small but practical way. Our Domestic Bursar and members of her team have been busy gathering protective aprons and gloves from our own stores and collecting donations from colleges across the University, all of which went to the John Radcliffe Hospital to help the NHS workers there.

“We are also very proud of our students’ efforts to work with charities to help the local community. They have fundraised for Oxford Food Bank and exceeded their target by raising over £600.”

JCR president Georgina Findlay said: “It’s been an exceptional year for charitable work and fundraising at St Hilda’s and it’s so heartening to see these efforts continuing to help the wider Oxford community during this difficult period. St Hilda’s has demonstrated a spirit of true altruism to support the community of the city we all love and appreciate so much.”

Nostalgia: it isn’t what it used to be

I remember a time when I took for granted that I could eat at restaurants, lay around in the park, and visit my family. Weeks into lockdown, we’re all probably feeling at least a little bit nostalgic (specifically, for the heady days of January).

During lockdown, most Uni students have been at their family home. For many, this means returning to their childhood bedrooms, complete with all the books, games and films they used to enjoy, and all the time in the world in which to enjoy them. How many must have begun reading Harry Potter, watching Lord of the Rings, and playing their Nintendo Game Boy in the past few weeks?

I’ve kept myself occupied, among other things, by returning to the old PC games I used to play years ago. These included the original Empire Earth, released in 2001 – I’d forgotten how hypnotizing the soundtrack was – along with Caesar 3, Football Manager 2010, and, most of all, Rome: Total War. I felt so nostalgic about them that I preferred to return to these old favourites than try new games. You can keep your beautiful graphics, your enhanced gameplay features; I had unfinished business with the Carthaginians to attend to, after all. I wanted to add the latest chapter in the history of me and the games I used to play.

When a sports star wins, among the first things the commentator says is ‘this is their first win since…’ or ‘this is the nth win of their career’: we care deeply about stories, about records, and about histories. When Federer spectacularly won the 2017 Australian Open against Nadal, the occasion was all the greater for the histories the two players shared. This was the latest chapter to add to the rest. Nostalgia was at work altering our perception of what was happening in the present, making some things seem incomparably more important.

But why do we long for things in the past? And why do we do it more when we feel anxious and uncertain?

It must be that we think things in the past were better than in the present. Perhaps because they are memories – we know how they begin, how they end, how we felt. We can even alter and improve them. In a time of great uncertainty, memories have a longed-for completeness about them.

Nostalgia is often a dark force in literary works. In Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited, Sebastian Flyte is said to be ‘in love with his own childhood’, the personification of nostalgia. This was not meant as a compliment. Sebastian, walking around Oxford clutching his teddy bear, finds himself incapable of living successfully as an adult, years of indulgence turning to substance abuse. Charles Ryder looks back with nostalgia at 1920s England from the ‘40s, and is trapped by longing for the past, until the workings of divine grace help him escape at the end of the book.

Despite its sometimes-dark presentation in literature, nostalgia can be positive. Think of computer games and sporting events: nostalgia is such a draw in culture as it uniquely ties us to the joys of our past, and brings them into the present.

Hidden in plain sight: Public art in Oxford

Have you ever had the feeling that someone’s watching you? That feeling that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The feeling you get at night when you turn off the downstairs lights and run as fast as you can up the stairs and into bed.

If you can relate, then you’re either Rockwell in his ‘80s hit single ‘Somebody’s Watching Me’, or you’re an Oxford student walking down Broad Street. Maybe you haven’t even noticed, but someone is watching you – and it’s a seven-foot man stood on the roof of Exeter College.

Fear not. He is, in fact, made of iron, donated by Antony Gormley to Exeter College in 2009, and is one of a hundred identical sculptures scattered across the world. Gormley’s collection, entitled Another Time XI, was declared by him to be a celebration of “the still and silent nature of sculpture.” “The work is designed to be placed within the flow of lived time,” he says, each statue placed on high buildings as if overlooking the streets below.

Although better known for his Angel of the North, Gormley’s work is no stranger to Oxford. Another of his statues, entitled Present Time, is located in the centre of Mansfield College’s main quad. Each sculpture cast from his own body, Gormley intends his work to capture the nakedness of life, telling the Guardian that it returns us to “the truth of the uniqueness of human existence.”

But let’s be realistic here: how many people, just by looking at them, know what these sculptures mean? And why are they considered public art?

Public art, as a genre, usually refers to art that enhances its community or speaks to our time. Anish Kapoor’s Cloud Gate is the perfect example, one of Chicago’s most popular tourist destinations. Commonly known as ‘the Bean’, it literally reflects its environment, forming the perfect backdrop for your next Instagram post – a mirror that warps the skyline behind it. Even in London, Katharina Fritsch’s sculpture of a giant blue cockerel seems to mean something to its community. Although appearing to be something you might see in a fever dream, Fritsch’s Hahn/Cock has become a bright symbol of modernity in Trafalgar Square. But what, you may ask, do iron sculptures of naked men have to do with Oxford? Does anyone know? Or are we all just pretending to?

Maybe this uncertainty is what makes public art successful. With no disrespect to the Ashmolean, it’s safe to say that art galleries have trained us into a ritual: we look, read the label on the wall, nod our heads, and move onto the next exhibit. Instead, public art often goes unnoticed, integrated into our everyday lives.

Lining the outside walls of the Bodleian, the stone grotesques might not be an emblem of Gothic architecture to one student, but a reminder of the first thing they see when they emerge, dazed, from a midday essay crisis. In fact, these exact grotesques were created in 2009, designed by schoolchildren for the theme ‘Myths and Monsters’. They were then produced by local stone carver, Alec Peever. Now a part of history, their success is not a piece of art with a label attached. Instead, it is embedded in the heart of Oxford’s daily life.

Oxford’s public art might be in more places than you think. The formidable carved figures outside the Sheldonian Theatre, known as the ‘Emperor Heads’ or the ‘Sheldonian Emperors’, aren’t just confined to Broad Street. First commissioned in the 1660s, the specific identity of all thirteen faces remains unknown. The stone carvings are suspected to depict ancient philosophers or emperors but have been weathered and replaced twice. Although not all the original heads have been found, some can be seen standing in Worcester College and Wadham College gardens.

Although slightly less of an enigma, Diana Bell’s Knowledge and Understanding remains a notable piece of art in Oxford city centre. Cast in bronze, piles of books have been stacked on benches in Bonn Square. Presented to Oxford by the city of Bonn in 2009, their spines are engraved with German translations of ‘friendship’, Oxford being the first city to approach Bonn to establish a friendship after the Second World War. Here, Bell’s sculptures serve as a quiet reminder of peace.

Oxford’s public art is scattered right across the city – and its history just keeps evolving. Is public art defined by how the artist intended it to be perceived, or have we, as passers-by, given it new meanings over the years? Is this what makes it public?

In the wake of a national lockdown, we seem to appreciate the surroundings we have and miss the ones we don’t. Maybe when students flock back to Oxford, public art, having previously flown under the radar, will be like the Gormley statue looming over Broad Street. Once you’ve seen it, you can’t unsee it.

In Winter

The Sun sets behind the trees
(As it must, or else remain raw),
Spindly branches starved of leaves,
Until the freezing fiery glow disappears Behind an army of silhouetted bare twigs.

I watch,
And if I listen to the breeze I hear night. I stay,
Until grey rain in twilight trickles Down the pane like a tear
Falls, reluctantly
Slithering down, down my cheek
As I perch at the frosted glass to see
If dawn will break again,
Or if, maybe,
She will hold steadfast.

Image Credit: Isabella Lill

In Regions Clear, and Far

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“…what a height my spirit is contending!/’Tis not content so soon to be alone.”

That belltower of ours was hurling out its eighth chime when we crept shoeless into the morning. Last night’s storm pulsed weary in the sky; 

and the silence was spotless –

so we ruined it.

Ghosts walk this violet-steeped street, circle this tower, shadows

of a past I can’t bring myself to see. It won’t be long, of course, before those flanking leaves are curling and dark, these stones

shimmered and crisp with frost,

and this morning

another memory. 

A glistening trace of fever still clung to the sky. That too I’m sure is gone, burned away by the April sun; and yet it was so quiet

I had to wonder

if we’d not mistakenly walked in on a dream. As though it were the easiest thing to lie on this pavement and fade into rich

fucking

oblivion

I was so tired

Then again, hangovers don’t generally split one’s head in dreams; nor do bruises generally ache between one’s –

Nonetheless, we were less

solid as we came to the turning.

Somehow the prospect of home, its insufferable rush of humanity, was far too tangible for the present hour, however quiet the streets would likely be. Before long, I would drag my thoughts back to train tickets and laundry and coffee-pots

such stuff as small talk’s made on,

and you’d don again your eye-rolls and filial laments; but for the moment the mundanity of it all appeared

as good as death, and so for now,

the path erased itself as we walked. With care I fade into this chaos, 

breathing these rustling branches, this opalite sky, these last tripping bars of this town

our town

so soon torn away – 

How beautiful emptiness was, and how delicate. Oh God –

if only we remained to wander among the stubborn shop fronts, perhaps it would never quite shatter; 

perhaps we could loiter in this great weighted after, 

linger, our fingers hooked into the place which was not quite Saturday morning

this glassy after. But of course, already it was cracking, 

for voices were whispering, scrabbling south to us, slippery, subtle, stubbornly screaming –

there is no us without this city. Oxford is ours

and remains in our debt

it clenches its marble claws round our necks –

and the blood they draw is sweet. Here we learned to love our home; here we forgot

our native shitholes (sometimes)

but still I grew to loathe that city

bereft of a town, I long

for streets you don’t know. Here I watched indifferently as the spirit starved within me, and grew emaciated

with living too much. 

A great fiery gust of wind whipped through the trees and came scraping

and surging

and stirring my heart, and here still it rots away that feeble lock on a dangerous thing…

the wind perished, the soft scent with it – but still I hope, what a fucking mistake –

So do I embrace bitterness, 

watch

the elderly waltz of the clouds? Exhaustion and wine are infinite allies

if one fears seeing clearly

fears waking, merely remembering

because then –

oh I curse my two-tone heartbeat.

A phantom hand in the crook of my waist, and perhaps speakerless murmurs scatter the still morning air. Hope taints like a miserable stain.

I weep for the past,

and the gaping maw of the future; for the trap I escaped and the one I have bought; above all

for the child I am not, 

and for you. 

And like static lurking behind the music on a broken 

fucking

radio, 

the echoed song of my heart

simply

won’t stop.

pandemic

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Some new pain hides behind the veil of those
Dreaming spires. Some silent assassin poised
Lying in wait.
Hiding in ink, circling
Stale pages in the closed stacks, lingering.

Invisible sylphs ask us to choose: to
Swallow toxic cyanide, or else taste
The most sullen, bitter memory of
Broad Street, overflowing, over the brim, with
Late to a tute
Blem outside the Kings Arms
Is that the Rad Cam???

All people, weighed down by bullet-sized smiles.
We’re wading through smoke, caustic chloroform,
Until paralysed, until parasites
Infect our blinking, saccharine eyes.

The same eyes that looked upon benign red brick
With aspiration, see it crumble like sand
Falling between fingers, feverishly slipping;
As fast as the sweet trance of sleep.

Who dares wonder whether we’ll cross bridges,
Who’ll be the first to neck golden pints, or
See the impossible black of a mortarboard?
Who’ll ask if it’s too brave to dream again?

Image credit: Ellie Wilkins

Friday Favourite: The Neapolitan Quartet

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In a rare interview with LA Times in 2018, Elena Ferrante, universally-celebrated, elusive (the name is a pseudonym) author of the Neapolitan novels, was asked about her fascination with Naples. Her response: ‘In the past, I used to think that only in Naples did the lawful continuously lose its boundaries and become confused with the unlawful, that only in Naples did good feelings suddenly, violently, without any break, become bad feelings. Today it seems to me that the whole world is Naples, and that Naples has the merit of having always presented itself without a mask.’ 

In the Neapolitan quartet – My Brilliant Friend, The Story of a New Name, Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay and The Story of the Lost Child – the friendship between two women is shaped by this volatile city, where Vesuvius looms on the horizon and the threat of danger lurks behind every corner. The books begin with an elderly Lenù discovering that her lifelong friend, Lila, has disappeared from the impoverished neighbourhood where they grew up, which prompts her to write the story of their friendship. Her motives are unclear – is it an act of love, or of revenge? The following four books take us through this complicated relationship, spanning decades, regions of Italy, key political and cultural movements, and every major milestone in both of their lives. We see the story almost entirely from Lenù’s perspective, save for the inclusion of Lila’s own notebooks at certain points along the way, and from the very beginning it is clear that this is no easy, best-friends-for-life dynamic – Lenù’s response to her friend’s disappearance is that she is ‘overdoing it as usual.’ ‘I was really angry. We’ll see who wins this time, I said to myself.’

This competitiveness underpins their friendship from the very beginning, when they come to each other’s attention as the two smartest girls in the class. The young Lenù is diligent and beloved by her teacher, but it is the scrawny, restless Lila, daughter of the shoemaker, who stands out with her fierce intelligence. Her genius is alienating, and she soon uses it as a weapon to inflict pain upon anyone who gets in her way – ‘her quickness of mind was like a hiss, a dart, a lethal bite.’ Only Lenù is fascinated, devoting herself to her studies ‘just so I could keep pace with that terrible, dazzling girl.’ From then on, their paths are forever intertwined. The foundation of their friendship stems from key episodes in childhood, where Ferrante’s skill as a storyteller really shines. Her attention to detail is extraordinary: so many of their childhood experiences foreshadow what happens in adulthood that you almost want to read the whole thing again to see how many clues you missed.

Like the city, Ferrante presents female friendship without a mask. It is not always pretty – there are moments of pure happiness, such as in childhood when they spend hours poring over a tattered old copy of Little Women, but the lives they lead are difficult, and the two friends are capable of inflicting the deepest pain upon one another. Most of this cruelty comes from Lila, who suffers under the limited options available for women of her class when the chance to escape through education is taken from her. Lenù realises early on that ‘no form could ever contain Lila … sooner or later she would break everything again.’ As a character, she is electric, charging the pages with energy – the books lose some their vitality in the chapters without her. And yet, even when they’re separated, Lenù finds the shadow of her friend everywhere, even in her own writing: comparing her work to one of Lila’s childhood stories, she discovers that ‘anyone who wanted to know what gave it warmth and what the origin was of the strong but invisible thread that joined the sentences would have to go back to that child’s packet, ten notebook pages, the rusty pin, the brightly coloured cover, the title, and not even a signature.’ 

The novels are truly stunning, and so is the TV adaptation that is about to start its second season, for which they plucked two actresses from obscurity to play the roles of Lila and Lenù. Ferrante explores issues ranging from political corruption to the struggles of motherhood, and what it means to be ashamed of where you came from, all in relation to two girls from a poor neighbourhood in Naples, going through life with the odds completely stacked against them. Some of its nuance may have been lost in translation, but her writing plunges straight to the heart of her characters’ inner psyche, leaving almost nothing unsaid. Lenù takes one look at Lila after a period of absence and immediately sees that ‘she was explaining to me that I had won nothing, that in the world there is nothing to win, that her life was full of varied and foolish adventures as much as mine, and that time simply slipped away without any meaning, and it was good just to see each other every so often to hear the mad sound of the brain in one echo in the mad sound of the brain in the other.’ 

I completely fell in love with these books when I read them last summer, and I honestly envy anyone who gets to read them with fresh eyes. I can’t think of any other author who pays such attention to the intricacies of female friendship; surpassing love interests and family members, Lenù and Lila are without a doubt the most important figure in each other’s lives. Even though only one is given the chance to complete her education, it is the encouragement the other that really makes this happen, proving that everything they achieve stems from this bond: ‘you’re my brilliant friend, you have to be the best of all, boys and girls.’