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This is the second assignment for my genre class. We had to describe a location and how we might use it as a setting within a genre of our choice.
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A bar in a small, midwest American town. It isn't much to look at; faded wooden sign hanging above the door. The car park barely registers as that – just a patch of dirt and dust. The outer walls are a white-wash affair, mismatched with a border of faded pastel red that serves to emulate the hicksville feel of the single-room affair inside. Nothing that would be missed should a few stray shotgun shells blow off the plaster, or if a head should explode bloodily too close to it.
Going through the main door, you come to a shabby set of faux saloon doors that serve no other purpose than letting you know that the owner once had big ideas for this place, but gave them up pretty quickly when they came to the realisation that no-one would be impressed by a Wild West-themed bar in the actual Wild West. They would certainly be no defence against the living dead; a minor hinderance at best. Good thing the outer door, one of only two entrances, is heavy and set with steel hinges and thick double bolts.
The windows, too, are fairly well fortified. After several break-ins, the owner had wire mesh bars installed over the glass: great for preventing brick damage, but fantastic for the mindless undead to claw themselves to shreds on.
As it goes, your average bar is probably the best place to head for in the event of a zombie apocalypse, short of your local gun shop, and this one is no exception. The owner wisely keeps a sawn-off shotgun under the bar for sticky situations such as scaring drunks. Ammunition might be a factor for anyone caught out here, but the array of weaponry doesn't end there. The array of spirits lining the back counter can be combined with old barcloths to make for an effective incendiary, provided you have a source of flame – but what self-respecting group of human refugees doesn't contain a seasoned smoker or two?
For your more sociopathic survivor, a broken bar stool can easily go the distance, mulching brain matter if applied with enough force, with backups to spare should the weapon break across the skull of the local school teacher or the county sheriff.
Should all defences fail, and retreat is the only option, the designated emergency exit is the cellar. Buried underground and by rule of thumb inaccessible to zombies, it should be easy to throw off pursuit, provided the owner themselves aren't waiting in the shadows, drooling over the kegs and staring out the mortar in the walls. Still, any quick-witted group that still retains some kind of weapon should be able to deal with this minor hinderance with minimal collateral damage. From here, it is a mere case of unlocking the cellar's tightly locked wooden delivery hatch (or blowing it open) and escaping to whatever end.
Sunday 13 December 2009
Tuesday 17 November 2009
Review: AZWAI - Aszerosweareinfinite
It's a good feeling when something you've been working on for a long time comes to fruition. After months of hard slog for very little gain, you might finally feel as if it has all been worth it, and you can allow yourself a pat on the back and maybe a few drinks down the pub. For Malvern-based hardcore quartet AsZerosWeAreInfinite, or AZWAI as they are more colloquially known, that drink should be at least three fingers, and the hand should belong to a big sweaty gorilla.You see, their self-titled EP was recorded over a year ago, but only now do you, the lucky public, get to sample the fruits of their labour.
The opener, 'God, By Any Other Name', kicks in with the lyrics “between my crooked teeth and self-prophesied lies, you will discover salvation for your ache”. This could be as much a comment from anybody who has found their way to the front of the stage during one of AZWAI's shows as it is about the actual subject, one Wayne Bent. Bent, also known as Michael Travesser, is the charismatic leader of the Lord Our Righteousness Church in New Mexico, a religious community who were featured in the Channel 4 Documentary 'The End of the World Cult'.
It's a belter of an opening track, driving home with the force of something big and forceful and un-clichéd as possible. You might be surprised that there is only one guitar at work here, as the entire band works hard to create a ferocious, full-bodied sound. Vocalist and lyricist Adam Murkin is great at taking a perspective and writing intelligently from it, no matter how bizarre or convoluted the perspective of that person might be. The clout with which he delivers his lines is unrelenting across the board, too, and conveys in part his mighty stage presence (both in front of and mid-crowd).
Next up is 'Snakeskin in the Shape of a Wedding Band', which claims the crown for the longest track on the EP – marginally. And that's one of the great things about AZWAI's refined style. The tracks are long enough to have enough substance to hold your attention (I'm looking at you, Ampere), but aren't so long that the onslaught becomes wearing. I know that this will be a firm crowd favourite – enough breakdowns and catchy lines for them to really get into.
Closer 'Poor Syntax' stands out as my favourite. I am still in awe as to how drummer Dan Taylor can manage as many stick-clacks in the space of a single second as he does to bring in this track, but this is by no means the highlight of the track. The influence of The Dillinger Escape Plan is clear from the outset, but it's no mere consummate rip-off: the guys know how to build on their influences, rather than rehashing existing songs.
The EP may only clock in at seven minutes and thirty-one seconds, but it's more than enough. It is an unrelenting juggernaut, devoid of unnecessary trimmings or lyrical waffle. Hear me; salvation is coming - and its name is AZWAI.
Band website: www.myspace.com/aszerosweareinfinite
Sunday 15 November 2009
Review: Stella Dawes - Contrasts
Seriously, why have Stella Dawes not been signed yet? A clutch of glowing reviews like theirs, and you might have expected someone major to have taken notice by now.I first received my copy of 'Contrasts', their debut full-length in the summer of 2008. Boy was I excited. I'd been keenly following this band for a while, ever since vocalist Mike Shakespeare, ferreting his way around Myspace one day, politely messaged a bunch of like-minded people in my area asking us to check out his band. Words such as 'Mare', 'Eden' and 'Maine' were bandied around, and I've been in love ever since.
I had known the album had been in production for a while. Mike and guitarist James Barter were taking on the entire process themselves, fitting it around day jobs, so a delay was to be expected. But when it came, I was stunned. Two tracks, 'Dichotomy' and 'Everything Happens to Eeyore' had been favourites for a while, and the recently previewed 'Happy Ever Afternoon' and 'The Unspeakable' had satiated my desire for new material, but even these didn't prepare me for the majesty of the beast.
You see, with a lot of albums, and ones of this genre in particular, the songs – the lyrics and the heartfelt meaning behind them – can come out quite same-y. Not entirely, obviously, but I quite often find myself having to check the name of the track against the listing to get a bearing of where I am in the record. This is never the case with Stella Dawes. Every song has a unique hallmark, not least in thanks to Bart's unique guitar sound – something akin to the love-child of a chainsaw and a cheese grater. You know it's 'Gut' because of the throaty staccato opening. You can differentiate between the two 'Investment Intercourse' tracks (Deposit and Return respectively) because the former kicks you squarely in the groin at 1:31. You know you're listening to what is arguably the album's centrepiece 'When the Tiger Lost His Voice' because, well, who else sings about tigers except Survivor? No riff or chord progression is repeated between songs, and they could have, because they're all good.
For me though, it's the very lyrics I mentioned earlier that make this record for me. Furious wrath and hardcore go hand-in-hand, and that's all well and good, but I like my lyrical spice to take a more intelligent twist than your average 'argh, I'm so misunderstood!'. Mike knows what he doesn't like about the world, but he expresses it intelligently and, above all, poetically. Lines like 'we polish shit, but like it or not, nobody here is perfection' ring true, as well as being delivered with consistent gusto and conviction.
Just a little note on the packaging. If ever there was a reason to buy a physical copy, this is it. The brown cardboard case is beautifully DIY (in keeping with the ethos of the whole package), and charming to boot. The insert, chock full of handwritten lyrics, continues the theme, and a nice little bonus was the typed insert thanking me for buying the CD. It's these little touches that might draw the ever-increasing number of pirates away from torrent sites and towards their wallets, were the majority of albums not merely templated jewel-case jobs. Anything to help in the war.
I know the band is currently not gigging due to the departure of founding bassist and drummer, Steve Butcher and Simon Kendrick, but I wish them the best of luck finding suitable replacements to fill the void. Based on a heavy amount of speculation (and the appearance of a couple of demos on their Myspace page recently), I suspect that the rest of the band will use this time to gather their creative thoughts, and I hope they will hit us with a stunning sophomore release sometime soon.
Band website: www.myspace.com/stelladawes
Friday 13 November 2009
The Golden Valley
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A recent assignment for my genre studies class required that we write about a place, fictional or real, in the style of two different genres. I chose to write about one of my favourite places, known as Golden Valley to locals. It's a really peaceful place that I used to go to do some of my writing when I wanted to be alone, back when I lived in Malvern. I know it that well that I thought it would come easily, but thinking about it in terms of different feelings than it normally evokes was pretty difficult.
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It is twilight. A grey mist sits on the surface of the lake, reflecting the drone of the lone electricity pylon that towers above me. Although I cannot see it, I know the derelict old cottage is still there on the other side of the chill waters; all broken windows and rotting door-frames. It has spooked me ever since I was a little child. I swear I saw the light of an old oil lamp in one of the windows once, even though the building had been abandoned for years. Mama told me I must have imagined it. I hope now that I did.
The last, cold light of the winter sunset glows behind the hills, making them loom ominously. I daren't go that way; a patchwork of potholes and gorse bushes make for unsteady going at the best of times, and it's getting darker by the minute. Bad things happen on these moors. Terrible things. Should I need to run, I would be in serious trouble.
I can't go back; the way behind me is burning. So I head into the fields.
I feel my way through the gathering night. The long grasses and tips of barley brush my fingers and palms, giving me the sensation that I am floating. The way across the common is long, but I have no choice. I couldn't stay here, even if I wanted to. I'd be found.
The midday sun glints off the hologram that poses for the lake's crystal-clear water. Things certainly have changed.
I step away from the door of my contraption. It hasn't just been a long time since I have seen this place in the rise-and-fall-of-civilisations sense: I may be able to reach the farthest corners of the time-line, but it has also been close to forever in my own lifetime since I set eyes on these fields.
I used to come here as a boy. It was one of my favourite places, actually. I would sit on the mossy old logs that served as benches with my Gramma and have picnics and feed the ducks. I don't suppose they have those any more – real food is costly to produce; far beyond the price range of the average human family. The ducks are definitely gone. It's funny, they can afford state-of-the-art holographic equipment so it doesn't look like they suffocated their own planet to death, but good luck enjoying it if you're a native. This is purely for the newsvids. If they caught me here though, trespassing would be the least of my problems. They have technology, but nothing like this. There would be some serious temporal consequences if they got their hands on this baby. But they won't; they'll never even know I was here.
I dig my hands into my pockets and sigh. The wind that blows through my hair at least is real. The barley stalks are simulated to sway in time with the breeze, but I know that if I walk over there my hand will go right through the stalks.
It's time to go. As I re-enter my ship, I take one last look over my shoulder and try to remember it as it was: the ducks, the water, the mossy log. Such a shame.
A recent assignment for my genre studies class required that we write about a place, fictional or real, in the style of two different genres. I chose to write about one of my favourite places, known as Golden Valley to locals. It's a really peaceful place that I used to go to do some of my writing when I wanted to be alone, back when I lived in Malvern. I know it that well that I thought it would come easily, but thinking about it in terms of different feelings than it normally evokes was pretty difficult.
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The Golden Valley
Horror
It is twilight. A grey mist sits on the surface of the lake, reflecting the drone of the lone electricity pylon that towers above me. Although I cannot see it, I know the derelict old cottage is still there on the other side of the chill waters; all broken windows and rotting door-frames. It has spooked me ever since I was a little child. I swear I saw the light of an old oil lamp in one of the windows once, even though the building had been abandoned for years. Mama told me I must have imagined it. I hope now that I did.
The last, cold light of the winter sunset glows behind the hills, making them loom ominously. I daren't go that way; a patchwork of potholes and gorse bushes make for unsteady going at the best of times, and it's getting darker by the minute. Bad things happen on these moors. Terrible things. Should I need to run, I would be in serious trouble.
I can't go back; the way behind me is burning. So I head into the fields.
I feel my way through the gathering night. The long grasses and tips of barley brush my fingers and palms, giving me the sensation that I am floating. The way across the common is long, but I have no choice. I couldn't stay here, even if I wanted to. I'd be found.
Science Fiction
The midday sun glints off the hologram that poses for the lake's crystal-clear water. Things certainly have changed.
I step away from the door of my contraption. It hasn't just been a long time since I have seen this place in the rise-and-fall-of-civilisations sense: I may be able to reach the farthest corners of the time-line, but it has also been close to forever in my own lifetime since I set eyes on these fields.
I used to come here as a boy. It was one of my favourite places, actually. I would sit on the mossy old logs that served as benches with my Gramma and have picnics and feed the ducks. I don't suppose they have those any more – real food is costly to produce; far beyond the price range of the average human family. The ducks are definitely gone. It's funny, they can afford state-of-the-art holographic equipment so it doesn't look like they suffocated their own planet to death, but good luck enjoying it if you're a native. This is purely for the newsvids. If they caught me here though, trespassing would be the least of my problems. They have technology, but nothing like this. There would be some serious temporal consequences if they got their hands on this baby. But they won't; they'll never even know I was here.
I dig my hands into my pockets and sigh. The wind that blows through my hair at least is real. The barley stalks are simulated to sway in time with the breeze, but I know that if I walk over there my hand will go right through the stalks.
It's time to go. As I re-enter my ship, I take one last look over my shoulder and try to remember it as it was: the ducks, the water, the mossy log. Such a shame.
Wednesday 11 November 2009
Wednesday 7 October 2009
Untitled - 'Staticat'
And the third piece. This, by process of elimination, relates to the broach on the left. I was told that this bone comes from a small-ish mammal, perhaps a cat, and so I took that and ran with it.
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Imagine your bedroom, dear reader. Go on; picture it in your head. A big warm bed with a comfy duvet. Your duvet. A wardrobe full of your clothes, hand picked to express your personality and make you feel good about yourself. Personal effects and trinkets from your travels both far and near sit on shelves and windowsills as neat little reminders of happy times.
Your bedroom is a place of sanctuary, of safety. Your own space in which you can recede when you have a crappy day and will at least help make you feel better. Nothing should encroach on this hallowed ground.
Which is why I have such issue with the cat that’s fucking up my personal space. It’s not that I don’t like cats, but this one is peculiar. It upsets me. In the darkest watches of the night. In my own bedroom. I don’t feel good in my room right now.
Physically, it is nothing out of the ordinary. A tail. Two eyes. Two ears. Four legs. Black, as cats in these sorts of situations often are.
What keeps me wide eyed from my pillow and compels me to write as I watch it and it watches me is…everything else.
The reason I can see this cat – this black cat – in the pitch darkness of my room is the eerie, almost lamp-like light that trails it. When the cat moves, the light follows it in the manner of a comet’s tail. When the cat stops pacing, the glow settles around it like a soft, source-less backlight.
Cats are well known for the practiced disinterest with which they observe you. I mentioned that this one was in no way physically abnormal; well, that is save for its eyes. They are ruby red and when they look at me and I look back, they seem to burn me. And when it opens its mouth to let forth a cute kitty sound, all I hear is the most terrible static. Fierce white noise that makes my ears hum and my jaw ache.
I can’t leave. It sits in the middle of the carpet between my bed and the door. I daren’t try to cross its path. So I wait.
Hours pass as we watch each other. The glow of the rising sun has hit the top of my blinds now. I reach for the cord; I long to let it in. As I open them, the glow surrounding the cat appears to reach for the warm new presence in the room.
The sun rises further and touches the cat. The cat is hard to see now. Its fur begins to almost melt away and flow into the sunlight through the open window. As the last of it slips away, my legs find themselves again and I move towards the window.
Looking out at my back garden, I see the cat again, flowing back into view as water into a mould. It now sits under a shady tree. Something feels different though. When it looks at me now, I feel only sadness and pity. After all I have felt these last hours, it is strange to not resent the cat. As I watch, it begins to paw the ground at its feet mournfully.
Something compelled me to go out there. I want to say it was sympathy, but for what I don’t know. When I got out there, the cat was gone. I haven’t seen it since.
I dug where it had been sitting. I got the feeling it had wanted me to. My fingernails became dirty, but I didn’t have to dig for long. Soon frayed hessian threads came into view. When there was something I could grab onto without it coming apart in my hands, I pulled. A sorry little sack popped out with a clatter.
Inside was a collection of bones. I can’t say for sure, but an educated guess tells me they were cat bones. There was a length of twine tied around the opening of the sack.
Why it decided to haunt me all night I do not know. Poor thing just wanted some company I guess. I took one of the bones out and put it on a shelf with my keepsakes.
Now the cat is part of my sanctuary. It should be safe here.
The Continuing Chronicles of Casmiro the Corpse-Hungry Cannibal
This is the second piece, and corresponds to the middle piece of jewellery in the picture below. This bone was found on the beach, and I suspect that this is how it came to be there, washed in by the tide...
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The Continuing Chronicles of Casmiro the Corpse-Hungry Cannibal
Casmiro gnaws.
Casmiro knows.
When he eats, he sees.
Memory.
Alfonso. Solicited dockside harlots. Gave his dear Sofia syphilis.
Tastes bad. Leave for the gulls.
Casmiro gnaws.
Casmiro knows.
When he eats, he hears.
Screams.
Geraldo. Killed his brother. Ran away to sea to escape the gallows.
Got his in the end. Spicy.
Casmiro gnaws.
Casmiro knows.
When he eats, he feels.
Loved.
Ignacio. Left his beloved to seek his fortune in New Spain. Not so fortuitous.
This one is sweet. Tender.
Picks the bone clean,
And tosses it to the ocean.
Tuesday 6 October 2009
From the diaries of James Q. Jackson
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I was recently asked to write a selection of stories to accompany a friend's submission of jewellery to a Halloween-themed exhibition at the Elevator Gallery in Hackney Wick. I didn't have long to do it, but I'm pretty pleased with the results, especially considering they ran longer than I had originally intended!
Each piece is intended as a kind of origin story. This first one relates to the piece of jewellery on the right, which we suspect is from a bird...
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From the diaries of James Q. Jackson, gold prospector.
October 22nd
The jewel of the broach is glowing an eerie green now. The old man said to pay it no heed; that the jungle light plays tricks on your mind. But I can’t help but start to believe the stories about this place. ‘More bounteous than the Californian fools’ gold,’ I had been told ‘but the gold here is dangerous.’ Since the loss of Barnabus and Roderick in the ravine two days ago, and with Ferdinand’s fever worsening, my initial enthusiasm for this expedition is all but spent.
October 25th
Phillipe said he heard ungodly noises during the night. I did not want to alarm the men by admitting it, but I heard them too. Fingers of blame were pointed at Ferdinand, who now just stares at the canopy from his stretcher, muttering in tongues. I clasped the talisman tightly to my chest as I rallied the men as best I could.
October 28th
No-one wants to carry Ferdinand any more. His breath rasps out into phlegmy coughs. The men think him contagious. When the boy, Samuel, ventured that we should leave him to his fate, a volley of sharp calls broke the silence between the trees. It was only the jungle birds, but it sent a shiver down my spine – an ominous omen indeed.
October 29th
I have been thinking about the birds. Their calls have haunted us for days now, a constant reminder of our strange surroundings. As I stare at the talisman’s jewel, I notice the glassy sheen resembles the staring, unblinking eye of a bird. Come to think of it, the bone of the broach is light and hollow, like those of birds…
October 31st
In the early dawn light, the noise rose to a crescendo. Somehow, camp remained in slumber - all save I. It was by the virtue of my wakefulness that I am still alive, although I know not for how long.
The birds attacked not long after they began their screaming. They swarmed in their dozens, the flurry of their beating wings filling the air. Butcher birds. I had seen them briefly during my stop off in Australia. By God do they deserve their name. I saw Garrett, still wrapped in his blanket, being skewered by their sharp beaks again and again until he was still. My legs were moving before I knew what I was doing. I am not proud, but I ran. Ran past the giggling form of Ferdinand lying bound to his stretcher. Ran past the boy Samuel as his eyes were plucked from his head by avenging beaks. Ran from the cries for help, for what could I do against so many?
I sit now in the rotting hollow of a dead tree. The butcher birds are closing, I can hear them screaming again. The broach feels warm against my chest – I can see it glowing through my shirt. They are coming for me. They are coming for it…
Sunday 19 July 2009
Nicky B
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Nicholas Brotheridge. He's not a nice guy. He's one of four characters developed so far. Not much else to show you out of context, so enjoy!
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Saturday 6 June 2009
Tuesday 12 May 2009
Reaping
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So I've been finished with university for almost a couple of weeks now. Deadlines went to plan, and although I was working up to the nose, it was for extra marks rather than racing to merely finish. I'm confident that I've done pretty damn well, if not excellently, on most of the assignments, and as such I'm looking forward to getting my results (not that I actually know when this will be...)
A couple of posts down you will have noticed a big shiny poster. This big shiny poster is what I have been using to advertise for an artist for Hell's Own, my graphic novel. Well, after weeks of waiting, I've had a mere two responses. One hasn't got back to me, but the other is showing some definite promise.
He's just finished his first year on the illustration course at my university, and contacted me with real enthusiasm for the project. We've been e-mailing back and forth over the past few days, and already he's given me a few preliminary character concept sketches, with a view to doing some more detailed ones in the very near future.
I can't wait. Things are finally taking off...
So I've been finished with university for almost a couple of weeks now. Deadlines went to plan, and although I was working up to the nose, it was for extra marks rather than racing to merely finish. I'm confident that I've done pretty damn well, if not excellently, on most of the assignments, and as such I'm looking forward to getting my results (not that I actually know when this will be...)
A couple of posts down you will have noticed a big shiny poster. This big shiny poster is what I have been using to advertise for an artist for Hell's Own, my graphic novel. Well, after weeks of waiting, I've had a mere two responses. One hasn't got back to me, but the other is showing some definite promise.
He's just finished his first year on the illustration course at my university, and contacted me with real enthusiasm for the project. We've been e-mailing back and forth over the past few days, and already he's given me a few preliminary character concept sketches, with a view to doing some more detailed ones in the very near future.
I can't wait. Things are finally taking off...
Wednesday 15 April 2009
The angel speaks
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In the spirit of giving you something a little more concrete from the project of the moment...
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How amusing that in this modern age, humanity is under the impression that freedom, and indeed free will, are desirable virtues. Children are taught the value of individuality and independence, and are encouraged to forge their own paths based on informed choices. Democracy and the principle of free speech are championed across the earth – under the ever-watchful and guiding hands of those with its ‘best interests’ at heart, naturally. For many, of course, these ‘enlightenments’ are not part of everyday life, but they are still under the impression that they would be better off if they were.
It should be obvious to any creature calling itself intelligent that true freedom is only created in the fallout of complete and utter dominion – it is merely the vacuum left by pure and unchallenged authority. Is that really so desirable? If not, how can anything inferior be even vaguely considered so? To have felt an immovable hand for so long, only to have it callously let go - over the darkest precipice no less – many a prisoner of such order will tell you that adjusting to life after order’s demise is harder than living under it.
Humanity would do well to consider its position a little more carefully I think.
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Lucifer is SO rewarding to write for...
In the spirit of giving you something a little more concrete from the project of the moment...
______
How amusing that in this modern age, humanity is under the impression that freedom, and indeed free will, are desirable virtues. Children are taught the value of individuality and independence, and are encouraged to forge their own paths based on informed choices. Democracy and the principle of free speech are championed across the earth – under the ever-watchful and guiding hands of those with its ‘best interests’ at heart, naturally. For many, of course, these ‘enlightenments’ are not part of everyday life, but they are still under the impression that they would be better off if they were.
It should be obvious to any creature calling itself intelligent that true freedom is only created in the fallout of complete and utter dominion – it is merely the vacuum left by pure and unchallenged authority. Is that really so desirable? If not, how can anything inferior be even vaguely considered so? To have felt an immovable hand for so long, only to have it callously let go - over the darkest precipice no less – many a prisoner of such order will tell you that adjusting to life after order’s demise is harder than living under it.
Humanity would do well to consider its position a little more carefully I think.
______
Lucifer is SO rewarding to write for...
Friday 10 April 2009
Hell's Own
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And so the project has a name.
Apologies for the lack of recent updates (to those of you who actually read this). All of my writerly focus since January has been directed towards long-haul projects and assignments for university, and as a result I've had nothing to share that was anywhere near finished. This is still the case really, but I thought I'd share a little something I concocted last night.
A select few know that I'm currently working on my 'magnum opus' as it were - a proposed comic-book serial. I've made a few half-hearted attempts recently to recruit an artist, but Middlesex being what it is, it seems like the illustration tutors have more important things to attend to...that or they never check their bleeding e-mails!
To that end I have drawn up a poster which I intend to post around campus, as well as at a few other institutions, to attract the attention of some poor, unwitting soul and force them into drawing pretty angels and fiery things for me.
So without any further ado or kerfuffle, here it is:
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Not bad, huh? I'm hoping it'll at least attract some attention, and with the addition of posting this blog's URL on or near to it, maybe some more minions for my ultimate dominion, mwahahahaaa!
Until next time...
And so the project has a name.
Apologies for the lack of recent updates (to those of you who actually read this). All of my writerly focus since January has been directed towards long-haul projects and assignments for university, and as a result I've had nothing to share that was anywhere near finished. This is still the case really, but I thought I'd share a little something I concocted last night.
A select few know that I'm currently working on my 'magnum opus' as it were - a proposed comic-book serial. I've made a few half-hearted attempts recently to recruit an artist, but Middlesex being what it is, it seems like the illustration tutors have more important things to attend to...that or they never check their bleeding e-mails!
To that end I have drawn up a poster which I intend to post around campus, as well as at a few other institutions, to attract the attention of some poor, unwitting soul and force them into drawing pretty angels and fiery things for me.
So without any further ado or kerfuffle, here it is:
______
______Not bad, huh? I'm hoping it'll at least attract some attention, and with the addition of posting this blog's URL on or near to it, maybe some more minions for my ultimate dominion, mwahahahaaa!
Until next time...
Sunday 11 January 2009
Year of the Boot
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O’Brien was lying on something that felt like a camp bed, except that it was higher off the ground and that he was fixed down in some way so that he could not move. Light that seemed stronger than usual was falling on his face. A moustached man was standing at his side, looking down at him intently. At the other side of him stood a man in a white coat, holding a hypodermic syringe.
“Do you remember who I am, Richard?” said the first man.
“Yes.” replied O’Brien.
“What is my name?”
He started to reply, but before he could finish a single word blue stars flashed across his field of vision as the little finger on his right hand was swiftly snapped back and broken. Blinded by pain, he barely noticed that his restraints were being released until he felt a sensation of falling, and his nose connected sickeningly with the floor. He felt the rough sole of a boot press hard against his cheek.
“Remember this feeling, Richard,” said the moustached man “a boot stamping on a human face. This is the future – forever. The sooner you accept the truth of it, the easier your life will become.”
O’Brien’s eyes flickered open to the harsh light in time to see the second man kneeling at his side, brandishing the syringe. Moments later the cold steel tip pierced his arm.
“After all, power is not a means; it is an end. We are that end. We are like this syringe; cold and bright, and if you let us, we’ll put an end to your suffering. Will you let us, Richard?”
O’Brien merely sighed and closed his eyes as the blissful drugs flowed through his veins, numbing the pain that wracked his body. Heavy footsteps approached and two hands gripped his arms. The unseen figures began to drag him away, and moments later he passed out.
He awoke on his back in what he assumed was the same cell he had inhabited for – how long was it now? Time was hard to measure in this place, devoid as it was of darkness or natural light, as was everything else. Every block, every corridor, every cell the same. He might be hundreds of feet in the air or buried deep underground – there was just no way to tell.
He swung his legs off the bench on which he lay and sat upright. He put his face in his hands, and immediately wished he hadn’t as a searing jolt from his right hand served as a reminder of his injury.
He looked around. The room was not as he remembered it, if it was indeed the same room. The bloody handprints on the walls were gone, and the vomit and faecal matter that had stained the floor were no more. For how long had he been out of his cell? Again, there was no way of knowing. The dominating presence of the sixty-four inch telescreen was no different at any rate. These brand new devices had been rolled out at an alarming rate across all of London of late. Dissident whispers had suggested that the party planned for there to be no corner of London that was not under surveillance.
As he sat there he became aware of a dull humming sound. It did not start upper se, as that would insinuate that it had not been there all along, which O’Brien had a feeling that it had. No, instead he had merely become aware of its presence, like the humming of an insect buzzing reaching your ears from the far side of a room. The noise did not appear to come from anywhere, and did not sound like anything that he had ever heard before. Over time it grew in volume, making him feel uneasy, until it began to hurt. He winced and put his hands up to his ears to cover them
“O’Brien!” came a commanding voice from the telescreen. “Uncover your face.”
O’Brien snapped his hands away from his face. Almost instantaneously the noise rose to fever pitch. The blood began to pound in his ears, drumming a heady tattoo against through his skull. Before long he could take it no more, and clamped his hands over his ears once more, ignoring the pain from his little finger as he squeezed as hard as he could.
“139 O’Brien R!” screamed the telescreen, “Uncover your face! No faces covered in the cells!”
But still O’Brien clung onto his head. He felt as if his body could take no more, yet he remained awake – oh how he longed for the sweet embrace of unconsciousness. Over the excruciating din he could just make out the sound of boots hurrying in the corridor outside before the door was thrown and three guards barrelled in brandishing truncheons. He felt the trickle of blood crest his lip and tasted its metallic bouquet before any of them even connected with his nose.
“Do you remember when I asked you what my name was?”
He was back on the table. The bright light in his face felt like it was trying to burn holes into his retinas. He hesitated, remembering the repercussions of his attempt to respond last time. The moustached man smiled.
“Do not fear to speak the truth, Richard. What is my name?”
O’Brien went to open his mouth again when he felt the ring finger on his right hand snap, causing him to howl in pain once more.
“But you said…!”
“Wrong!” bellowed the moustached man. “I told you to tell me the truth! How can you expect to tell me my name if you don’t even know it?”
O’Brien didn’t understand. Every man, woman and child in the country knew his name; how could they not?
“Then who are you?” he blurted out in confusion.
“My name is of no concern to you. In truth I may as well not even have a name. When you were young, did call your mother by her given name? Your father? No, family does not need names; only love. I am more like a big brother, to you and to everyone! So I ask you again, little brother – what is my name?”
“Big Brother?” he guessed, wincing.
The moustached man smiled again. There was a warmth to it, beneath that imposing thatch of bristles that O’Brien could not help but take heart from. The thick end of a truncheon impacted into the bridge of his already broken nose, which only compounded the excruciating pain.
“Right first time, little brother. There’s hope for you yet.”
Days – or what he assumed were days – went by, each one mirroring the one before it. Big Brother would ask him questions. Every answer O’Brien gave was met by brutal force. Broken bones, electrocution, beatings; it all merged into one constant, crushing ache, like the paper cut that would not stop bleeding no matter what you did.
“I don’t understand!” cried O’Brien, cradling his stomach. The table had been dispensed with, and he was now curled in a ball on the floor – he was no longer a threat. “I give you the wrong answer and you hurt me. I give you the correct answer and you hurt me. Whatever I say is wrong!”
“Precisely. And that’s what I’m trying to teach you. You know what the correct answer to the question is, but you don’t know why it is the correct answer.”
“Then tell me!” he sobbed. Big Brother paused for a moment, as if considering O’Brien’s worthiness.
“Very well. It is the correct answer because that is what we say the correct answer is. Whatever you think to be fact at any given time is only fact until we decide that it isn’t anymore. From that moment on, it is, has always been, and will always be an untruth. Do you understand that?”
“I…”
This time it was his thumb.
“You do not know whether you understand until I tell you that you understand!”
“You can’t do this!”
“Why not? We have the power to do anything we want. Moreover we have been given that power. Fear is a powerful motivator. It motivated the people of Britain to turn to a demon they didn’t fully understand when the wolves of Europe and Asia were at their door. It motivates the citizens of London to hurry home before ten o’clock every night. It motivates you to tell me what I want you to tell me. They wanted freedom: well, freedom is slavery little brother. And I am more than happy to give it to them.”
O’Brien fell silent. He had no words to express his abject horror at what Big Brother was saying – the worst part was that it was absolutely true.
“You know the war’s been over for a long time?” he continued.
“What?”
“The war. With Europe and Asia. They actually destroyed each other a long time ago. We had very little to do with the whole affair. We merely chose not to inform the general populace.”
He felt like being sick. The war had meant severe food shortages and heavy rationing. Famine, even. ‘The cost of transporting supplies to the north of the country,’ the newsfeeds had said, right before his capture, ‘is not cost effective or beneficial to the ongoing war effort.’ O’Brien felt the muscles in his stomach convulse beneath his left hand and he heaved, falling forward with the effort, but only a pathetic string of saliva dribbled to the floor.
“Why not?” he spat.
“Why do you think? Power. How can you expect to control a large group of people if you have no way to motivate them? It was by taking advantage of the country’s fear of foreign invasion that we gained control. To retain that control we needed to unite the people against a common enemy. If there is no war, where are they to direct their hate?”
“But I have seen the traitors hung in front of me; the spies shot before my very eyes. How could they have been falsified?”
“Why would they have been falsified? Those men and women were indeed killed, and they believed they had committed and confessed to every last one of the accusations held against before they died, even though they were all of them innocent, because I told them that they had.”
“Am I to die, then?”
“Not yet. I have my uses for you.”
“I’ll never help you.”
“You will help me, Richard, and when you do it will be of your own free will. I promise you that.”
The feeling of despair washed over him anew. It raised the hairs on the back of his, sending a visible shiver down his spine. His ears began to ring, not because of some unbidden sound, but from the gargantuan weight of what he was hearing.
“Tell me what you think of me.” said Big Brother after a while.
O’Brien started to cry. He wasn’t even sure if there were sufficient fluids in his tear ducts for actual tears, but he sobbed and sobbed as if he were ten years old again. His head was bowed, but he could feel Big Brother’s stare boring into the top of his skull into his brain.
“I don’t know,” he said eventually. “I don’t know what to think.”
Big Brother smiled again.
“Good dog.”
The telescreen in O’Brien’s cell flickered once and came on. He looked up, bemused. At first there was just static, but after a few moments a moving image came into view. He recognised it as Trafalgar Square – yes, the remains of Nelson’s Column were just visible in the centre of the picture, obscured as they were by a throng of people. The crowd was facing the enormous telescreen that hung from the front of the building that used to be the National Gallery. A lean, ten-foot Jewish face was blazoned across it. He had neat white hair and a goatee. It was an intelligent face, but one that was contorted into rage. O’Brien recognised it as Emmanuel Goldstein, second in command of the party, beneath – beneath Big Brother himself.
He could hear faint chanting, which grew louder as someone turned up the volume on his telescreen. They were cheering and crying as Goldstein delivered his speech, which rang clear above the assembled voices.
“…these vile swine continue to attack helpless civilians. This week alone half a million in the Midlands have succumbed to their relentless crusade.”
Goldstein’s face was replaced by images of foreign planes, falling bombs and explosions. A never-ending column of soldiers in battle fatigues marched across the screen as Goldstein’s voice continued, unabated.
“…depraved leaders of Eurasia...”
‘Wait, that wasn’t right, was it?’ thought O’Brien. ‘Europe and Asia have always been separate continents. They fought each other in the war, were they now one? No, more of Big Brother’s lies’ he consoled himself. Goldstein was still going, calling for the country to unite behind their leader. There was no mention of winning the war – only hatred of the enemy and loyalty to the party.
Another new word cropped up: ‘Eastasia’. O’Brien was startled again at its mention. The people were buying it. Everyone believed it. Was he really remembering it correctly? It had been so long since he had tasted fresh air that he’d forgotten what it felt like on his skin. If he couldn’t even remember that, how could he be sure he remembered something as physically disconnected from him as the war? Was Big Brother right – did true power really mean the ability to make everyone believe whatever you wanted them to believe?
O’Brien looked away. He saw that the cell door was open, and Big Brother was standing there.
“Do you see? We tell them anything we like, and they believe it, so unified in their hatred are they. As far as they are concerned, Eurasia and Eastasia have always existed, and we have always been at war with them.”
O’Brien did not respond immediately. He sat there, looking at the floor, then opened his mouth.
“Why?”
“Why not? Power is intoxicating; either you have it or you don’t. Wouldn’t you rather control the pieces than be one of them, being made to dance at somebody else’s will? Of course you would. You will never have that luxury, but then again you never had it in the first place, so you will not miss it. The party is power. I am the party. I am power.”
O’Brien felt a faint breeze from the direction of the open door brush his cheek. The sensation caused a single tear to roll down it. Big Brother breathed deeply and got up.
“On your feet little brother. I’m taking you somewhere.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere you’ve never been before. We call it Room 101. You have learned. You understand. Now it is time for you to accept.”
“I am ready.”
O’Brien strode purposefully along one of the many completely indistinguishable corridors of the Ministry of Love, a sturdy jack-booted guard at his side. Today was going to be an interesting day, he could tell. They rounded the corner and approached the second cell on the right. O’Brien opened the door and went in. The man inside started to his feet.
“They’ve got you too!” he cried, recognising O’Brien.
“They got me a long time ago,” O’Brien replied. He stepped aside to allow the broad-chested guard access to the room, who entered with a gleeful grin on his face, clutching his long black truncheon tightly.
“You knew this, Winston, don’t deceive yourself. You did know it – you have always known it.”
Winston appeared to consider this for a second, before the guard was upon him. The truncheon fell on his elbow, causing him to writhe around in pain on the floor feebly, as O’Brien once had in the very same position. The guard laughed mercilessly as Winston clutched at his arm. He considered for a moment how very much like him this man was – there was more than just a little of O’Brien in the dishevelled shape rolling on the floor in front of him. Yes, he would enjoy the time he was going to spend with Winston Smith.
O’Brien was lying on something that felt like a camp bed, except that it was higher off the ground and that he was fixed down in some way so that he could not move. Light that seemed stronger than usual was falling on his face. A moustached man was standing at his side, looking down at him intently. At the other side of him stood a man in a white coat, holding a hypodermic syringe.
“Do you remember who I am, Richard?” said the first man.
“Yes.” replied O’Brien.
“What is my name?”
He started to reply, but before he could finish a single word blue stars flashed across his field of vision as the little finger on his right hand was swiftly snapped back and broken. Blinded by pain, he barely noticed that his restraints were being released until he felt a sensation of falling, and his nose connected sickeningly with the floor. He felt the rough sole of a boot press hard against his cheek.
“Remember this feeling, Richard,” said the moustached man “a boot stamping on a human face. This is the future – forever. The sooner you accept the truth of it, the easier your life will become.”
O’Brien’s eyes flickered open to the harsh light in time to see the second man kneeling at his side, brandishing the syringe. Moments later the cold steel tip pierced his arm.
“After all, power is not a means; it is an end. We are that end. We are like this syringe; cold and bright, and if you let us, we’ll put an end to your suffering. Will you let us, Richard?”
O’Brien merely sighed and closed his eyes as the blissful drugs flowed through his veins, numbing the pain that wracked his body. Heavy footsteps approached and two hands gripped his arms. The unseen figures began to drag him away, and moments later he passed out.
He awoke on his back in what he assumed was the same cell he had inhabited for – how long was it now? Time was hard to measure in this place, devoid as it was of darkness or natural light, as was everything else. Every block, every corridor, every cell the same. He might be hundreds of feet in the air or buried deep underground – there was just no way to tell.
He swung his legs off the bench on which he lay and sat upright. He put his face in his hands, and immediately wished he hadn’t as a searing jolt from his right hand served as a reminder of his injury.
He looked around. The room was not as he remembered it, if it was indeed the same room. The bloody handprints on the walls were gone, and the vomit and faecal matter that had stained the floor were no more. For how long had he been out of his cell? Again, there was no way of knowing. The dominating presence of the sixty-four inch telescreen was no different at any rate. These brand new devices had been rolled out at an alarming rate across all of London of late. Dissident whispers had suggested that the party planned for there to be no corner of London that was not under surveillance.
As he sat there he became aware of a dull humming sound. It did not start upper se, as that would insinuate that it had not been there all along, which O’Brien had a feeling that it had. No, instead he had merely become aware of its presence, like the humming of an insect buzzing reaching your ears from the far side of a room. The noise did not appear to come from anywhere, and did not sound like anything that he had ever heard before. Over time it grew in volume, making him feel uneasy, until it began to hurt. He winced and put his hands up to his ears to cover them
“O’Brien!” came a commanding voice from the telescreen. “Uncover your face.”
O’Brien snapped his hands away from his face. Almost instantaneously the noise rose to fever pitch. The blood began to pound in his ears, drumming a heady tattoo against through his skull. Before long he could take it no more, and clamped his hands over his ears once more, ignoring the pain from his little finger as he squeezed as hard as he could.
“139 O’Brien R!” screamed the telescreen, “Uncover your face! No faces covered in the cells!”
But still O’Brien clung onto his head. He felt as if his body could take no more, yet he remained awake – oh how he longed for the sweet embrace of unconsciousness. Over the excruciating din he could just make out the sound of boots hurrying in the corridor outside before the door was thrown and three guards barrelled in brandishing truncheons. He felt the trickle of blood crest his lip and tasted its metallic bouquet before any of them even connected with his nose.
“Do you remember when I asked you what my name was?”
He was back on the table. The bright light in his face felt like it was trying to burn holes into his retinas. He hesitated, remembering the repercussions of his attempt to respond last time. The moustached man smiled.
“Do not fear to speak the truth, Richard. What is my name?”
O’Brien went to open his mouth again when he felt the ring finger on his right hand snap, causing him to howl in pain once more.
“But you said…!”
“Wrong!” bellowed the moustached man. “I told you to tell me the truth! How can you expect to tell me my name if you don’t even know it?”
O’Brien didn’t understand. Every man, woman and child in the country knew his name; how could they not?
“Then who are you?” he blurted out in confusion.
“My name is of no concern to you. In truth I may as well not even have a name. When you were young, did call your mother by her given name? Your father? No, family does not need names; only love. I am more like a big brother, to you and to everyone! So I ask you again, little brother – what is my name?”
“Big Brother?” he guessed, wincing.
The moustached man smiled again. There was a warmth to it, beneath that imposing thatch of bristles that O’Brien could not help but take heart from. The thick end of a truncheon impacted into the bridge of his already broken nose, which only compounded the excruciating pain.
“Right first time, little brother. There’s hope for you yet.”
Days – or what he assumed were days – went by, each one mirroring the one before it. Big Brother would ask him questions. Every answer O’Brien gave was met by brutal force. Broken bones, electrocution, beatings; it all merged into one constant, crushing ache, like the paper cut that would not stop bleeding no matter what you did.
“I don’t understand!” cried O’Brien, cradling his stomach. The table had been dispensed with, and he was now curled in a ball on the floor – he was no longer a threat. “I give you the wrong answer and you hurt me. I give you the correct answer and you hurt me. Whatever I say is wrong!”
“Precisely. And that’s what I’m trying to teach you. You know what the correct answer to the question is, but you don’t know why it is the correct answer.”
“Then tell me!” he sobbed. Big Brother paused for a moment, as if considering O’Brien’s worthiness.
“Very well. It is the correct answer because that is what we say the correct answer is. Whatever you think to be fact at any given time is only fact until we decide that it isn’t anymore. From that moment on, it is, has always been, and will always be an untruth. Do you understand that?”
“I…”
This time it was his thumb.
“You do not know whether you understand until I tell you that you understand!”
“You can’t do this!”
“Why not? We have the power to do anything we want. Moreover we have been given that power. Fear is a powerful motivator. It motivated the people of Britain to turn to a demon they didn’t fully understand when the wolves of Europe and Asia were at their door. It motivates the citizens of London to hurry home before ten o’clock every night. It motivates you to tell me what I want you to tell me. They wanted freedom: well, freedom is slavery little brother. And I am more than happy to give it to them.”
O’Brien fell silent. He had no words to express his abject horror at what Big Brother was saying – the worst part was that it was absolutely true.
“You know the war’s been over for a long time?” he continued.
“What?”
“The war. With Europe and Asia. They actually destroyed each other a long time ago. We had very little to do with the whole affair. We merely chose not to inform the general populace.”
He felt like being sick. The war had meant severe food shortages and heavy rationing. Famine, even. ‘The cost of transporting supplies to the north of the country,’ the newsfeeds had said, right before his capture, ‘is not cost effective or beneficial to the ongoing war effort.’ O’Brien felt the muscles in his stomach convulse beneath his left hand and he heaved, falling forward with the effort, but only a pathetic string of saliva dribbled to the floor.
“Why not?” he spat.
“Why do you think? Power. How can you expect to control a large group of people if you have no way to motivate them? It was by taking advantage of the country’s fear of foreign invasion that we gained control. To retain that control we needed to unite the people against a common enemy. If there is no war, where are they to direct their hate?”
“But I have seen the traitors hung in front of me; the spies shot before my very eyes. How could they have been falsified?”
“Why would they have been falsified? Those men and women were indeed killed, and they believed they had committed and confessed to every last one of the accusations held against before they died, even though they were all of them innocent, because I told them that they had.”
“Am I to die, then?”
“Not yet. I have my uses for you.”
“I’ll never help you.”
“You will help me, Richard, and when you do it will be of your own free will. I promise you that.”
The feeling of despair washed over him anew. It raised the hairs on the back of his, sending a visible shiver down his spine. His ears began to ring, not because of some unbidden sound, but from the gargantuan weight of what he was hearing.
“Tell me what you think of me.” said Big Brother after a while.
O’Brien started to cry. He wasn’t even sure if there were sufficient fluids in his tear ducts for actual tears, but he sobbed and sobbed as if he were ten years old again. His head was bowed, but he could feel Big Brother’s stare boring into the top of his skull into his brain.
“I don’t know,” he said eventually. “I don’t know what to think.”
Big Brother smiled again.
“Good dog.”
The telescreen in O’Brien’s cell flickered once and came on. He looked up, bemused. At first there was just static, but after a few moments a moving image came into view. He recognised it as Trafalgar Square – yes, the remains of Nelson’s Column were just visible in the centre of the picture, obscured as they were by a throng of people. The crowd was facing the enormous telescreen that hung from the front of the building that used to be the National Gallery. A lean, ten-foot Jewish face was blazoned across it. He had neat white hair and a goatee. It was an intelligent face, but one that was contorted into rage. O’Brien recognised it as Emmanuel Goldstein, second in command of the party, beneath – beneath Big Brother himself.
He could hear faint chanting, which grew louder as someone turned up the volume on his telescreen. They were cheering and crying as Goldstein delivered his speech, which rang clear above the assembled voices.
“…these vile swine continue to attack helpless civilians. This week alone half a million in the Midlands have succumbed to their relentless crusade.”
Goldstein’s face was replaced by images of foreign planes, falling bombs and explosions. A never-ending column of soldiers in battle fatigues marched across the screen as Goldstein’s voice continued, unabated.
“…depraved leaders of Eurasia...”
‘Wait, that wasn’t right, was it?’ thought O’Brien. ‘Europe and Asia have always been separate continents. They fought each other in the war, were they now one? No, more of Big Brother’s lies’ he consoled himself. Goldstein was still going, calling for the country to unite behind their leader. There was no mention of winning the war – only hatred of the enemy and loyalty to the party.
Another new word cropped up: ‘Eastasia’. O’Brien was startled again at its mention. The people were buying it. Everyone believed it. Was he really remembering it correctly? It had been so long since he had tasted fresh air that he’d forgotten what it felt like on his skin. If he couldn’t even remember that, how could he be sure he remembered something as physically disconnected from him as the war? Was Big Brother right – did true power really mean the ability to make everyone believe whatever you wanted them to believe?
O’Brien looked away. He saw that the cell door was open, and Big Brother was standing there.
“Do you see? We tell them anything we like, and they believe it, so unified in their hatred are they. As far as they are concerned, Eurasia and Eastasia have always existed, and we have always been at war with them.”
O’Brien did not respond immediately. He sat there, looking at the floor, then opened his mouth.
“Why?”
“Why not? Power is intoxicating; either you have it or you don’t. Wouldn’t you rather control the pieces than be one of them, being made to dance at somebody else’s will? Of course you would. You will never have that luxury, but then again you never had it in the first place, so you will not miss it. The party is power. I am the party. I am power.”
O’Brien felt a faint breeze from the direction of the open door brush his cheek. The sensation caused a single tear to roll down it. Big Brother breathed deeply and got up.
“On your feet little brother. I’m taking you somewhere.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere you’ve never been before. We call it Room 101. You have learned. You understand. Now it is time for you to accept.”
“I am ready.”
O’Brien strode purposefully along one of the many completely indistinguishable corridors of the Ministry of Love, a sturdy jack-booted guard at his side. Today was going to be an interesting day, he could tell. They rounded the corner and approached the second cell on the right. O’Brien opened the door and went in. The man inside started to his feet.
“They’ve got you too!” he cried, recognising O’Brien.
“They got me a long time ago,” O’Brien replied. He stepped aside to allow the broad-chested guard access to the room, who entered with a gleeful grin on his face, clutching his long black truncheon tightly.
“You knew this, Winston, don’t deceive yourself. You did know it – you have always known it.”
Winston appeared to consider this for a second, before the guard was upon him. The truncheon fell on his elbow, causing him to writhe around in pain on the floor feebly, as O’Brien once had in the very same position. The guard laughed mercilessly as Winston clutched at his arm. He considered for a moment how very much like him this man was – there was more than just a little of O’Brien in the dishevelled shape rolling on the floor in front of him. Yes, he would enjoy the time he was going to spend with Winston Smith.
Thursday 8 January 2009
A E I Owe You
______
I was going to write this review entirely in the style of its subject: the eccentrically offbeat Eunoia; but in all honestly it would be more trouble than it’s worth. You’d probably lose your concentration and stop reading half way through. Here’s why:
The word from which this book takes its title is the shortest word in the English language to contain all five vowels. From the Greek word for ‘beautiful thinking’, it’s an apt title, because it is indeed a beautiful thought. But that’s just the problem – as a concept it’s every writer’s wet dream, but in reality there’s something about it that just doesn’t quite work.
The main body of the book is divided into five chapters, in each of which author Christian Bök uses words that contain only one of the five vowels. It’s ambitious, and it works to a certain extent. Each of these chapters describes a banquet, some kind of lustful act, a pastoral scene and a nautical voyage in some way, and does not repeat any word bar connectives. It’s certainly an impressive feat, and took him seven years to write, which is in no small part why I dropped the idea of imitating him in this review – it’s not really the kind of spare time I have on my hands!
Of course, using as many words as possible that contain only one of the five vowels is limiting at best, so it’s no surprise that it doesn’t always flow too well. I’m undecided as to whether it should be read as poetry or as narrative fiction, because although the language is beautifully constructed and displays certain rhythmic qualities, four characters inhabit the scenes, and each have a story: Hassan hatches a dark plan; Helen enters Hell’s deepest recesses; ‘I’ sighs, his writing stifling; and Ubu humps Ruth.
As a narrative piece, however, it has obstacles. Had I mimicked the mode of Eunoia and used only one vowel at a time, you would most likely have given up reading this review by now. It’s not so much because the flow is particularly jarring as a result, but more because you have to read it side-by-side with a dictionary. “Casbah”, “senescent”, “colophons” – whilst you can get the gist of what each word means from the context in which it is used, I found my enjoyment hampered somewhat in Bök’s work.
And when there is simply no word in English for what he wants to say, Bök resorts to alternative languages, which was aggravating no end. Perhaps I’m just bitter that my grasp of French and Latin is substandard at best, I don’t know. Admittedly it is clever, and appeals to the pretentious, fancy-word-loving poet in me, but as a rule I subscribe to the George Orwell, ‘if people won’t understand what the word means, use a different one’ school of thought – if no-one understands a word you’re saying, then what are you going to achieve?
The second half of the book is a collection of interesting little titbits along the same restrictive lines as the first five chapters, but less exhausting. ‘Vowels’, which uses only the letters of its title, beautifully sums up the rise and fall of love, ending on the fantastic image “so we love less well, so low, so level. Wolves evolve”. Various other pieces include a homophonic translation of Arthur Rimbaud’s Voyelle, an elegy to the letter ‘w’, and the excess trimmed from Chapter E, which is a take on the Iliad.
Summarising the collection is an afterword by the author, which explains the concepts behind each piece – and which I think sums up my main problem with Eunoia as a whole. Reading is fun, and aside from learning, why else do people do it? That everything needs a sort of footnote is like the joke that needs explaining – you understand, but it isn’t really funny. Once he’s explained that each chapter uses only one vowel (okay, so this is obvious), and that he only uses each word once, and that he’s used ninety-eight percent of the words that use only one vowel available, and that each chapter describes the same things and so on and so forth, the book has lost its fun. I enjoyed the stories, and I applaud the concept, but needing to be shown its genius, and as such why it took seven years to write, kind of killed it for me. Sorry Christian...
I was going to write this review entirely in the style of its subject: the eccentrically offbeat Eunoia; but in all honestly it would be more trouble than it’s worth. You’d probably lose your concentration and stop reading half way through. Here’s why:
The word from which this book takes its title is the shortest word in the English language to contain all five vowels. From the Greek word for ‘beautiful thinking’, it’s an apt title, because it is indeed a beautiful thought. But that’s just the problem – as a concept it’s every writer’s wet dream, but in reality there’s something about it that just doesn’t quite work.
The main body of the book is divided into five chapters, in each of which author Christian Bök uses words that contain only one of the five vowels. It’s ambitious, and it works to a certain extent. Each of these chapters describes a banquet, some kind of lustful act, a pastoral scene and a nautical voyage in some way, and does not repeat any word bar connectives. It’s certainly an impressive feat, and took him seven years to write, which is in no small part why I dropped the idea of imitating him in this review – it’s not really the kind of spare time I have on my hands!
Of course, using as many words as possible that contain only one of the five vowels is limiting at best, so it’s no surprise that it doesn’t always flow too well. I’m undecided as to whether it should be read as poetry or as narrative fiction, because although the language is beautifully constructed and displays certain rhythmic qualities, four characters inhabit the scenes, and each have a story: Hassan hatches a dark plan; Helen enters Hell’s deepest recesses; ‘I’ sighs, his writing stifling; and Ubu humps Ruth.
As a narrative piece, however, it has obstacles. Had I mimicked the mode of Eunoia and used only one vowel at a time, you would most likely have given up reading this review by now. It’s not so much because the flow is particularly jarring as a result, but more because you have to read it side-by-side with a dictionary. “Casbah”, “senescent”, “colophons” – whilst you can get the gist of what each word means from the context in which it is used, I found my enjoyment hampered somewhat in Bök’s work.
And when there is simply no word in English for what he wants to say, Bök resorts to alternative languages, which was aggravating no end. Perhaps I’m just bitter that my grasp of French and Latin is substandard at best, I don’t know. Admittedly it is clever, and appeals to the pretentious, fancy-word-loving poet in me, but as a rule I subscribe to the George Orwell, ‘if people won’t understand what the word means, use a different one’ school of thought – if no-one understands a word you’re saying, then what are you going to achieve?
The second half of the book is a collection of interesting little titbits along the same restrictive lines as the first five chapters, but less exhausting. ‘Vowels’, which uses only the letters of its title, beautifully sums up the rise and fall of love, ending on the fantastic image “so we love less well, so low, so level. Wolves evolve”. Various other pieces include a homophonic translation of Arthur Rimbaud’s Voyelle, an elegy to the letter ‘w’, and the excess trimmed from Chapter E, which is a take on the Iliad.
Summarising the collection is an afterword by the author, which explains the concepts behind each piece – and which I think sums up my main problem with Eunoia as a whole. Reading is fun, and aside from learning, why else do people do it? That everything needs a sort of footnote is like the joke that needs explaining – you understand, but it isn’t really funny. Once he’s explained that each chapter uses only one vowel (okay, so this is obvious), and that he only uses each word once, and that he’s used ninety-eight percent of the words that use only one vowel available, and that each chapter describes the same things and so on and so forth, the book has lost its fun. I enjoyed the stories, and I applaud the concept, but needing to be shown its genius, and as such why it took seven years to write, kind of killed it for me. Sorry Christian...
The Manhattan Project
______
“Who watches the Watchmen?” leers long-faded graffiti from the redbrick of a New York side-alley. An overflowing trashcan nearby adds a faint, sickly odour to the air, as a shadowy figure melts into the night beyond. Replace the word ‘watch’ with the word ‘read’, and for me, the answer should be ‘as many people as possible’.
I came quite late to the comic scene. I’m sure we’re all aware of the of the typical comic book reader stereotypes – spotty, basement-ridden computer nerds with inch-thick glasses, societal rejects who would rather live in ridiculous fantasy worlds, and middle-aged wasters who seem unable to let go of their mothers’ apron strings. Although there’s often no smoke without fire, I find myself scoffing at the notion as a whole. Comic books (or ‘graphic novels’, as those with more adult leanings tend to be called) are an ever more popular medium, no longer so widely regarded as immature crap. As such, I find myself able to dive in headlong without so much as a sarcastic comment from my peers.
This image change is in no small part thanks to Alan Moore. This beardy British weirdo from Northampton created The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (the book, not that sub-par film), inspired the current take on the Batman/Joker relationship in his one-shot story The Killing Joke, and, for my money, matches George Orwell’s vision of a dystopian, totalitarian future with V for Vendetta.
But Watchmen. Watchmen, his magnum opus, is a cut above the rest. I’ll admit, the brief doesn’t look too promising; a bunch of middle-aged, retired superheroes; one is a mild-mannered, slightly podgy Batman-esque ornithologist. Another, the only one who is still active (albeit illegally), is an uncompromising right-wing nut-job with his own particularly brutal brand of justice. Another is a rich ponce with a fondness for purple and a God complex – and that’s next to the only one who actually has any superpowers. An odd bunch for sure, but that’s where the appeal lies. How easy is it really to identify with a heroic staple like Superman, with his startling array of superhuman traits, extra-terrestrial heritage and bright red pants (‘Ugh, I can fly at supersonic speed and see through walls, I have so many problems!’)? Moore’s characters are conflicted, self-doubting and stroppy – and all the more human for it.
Set in an alternative 1985 where America won the Vietnam war, Nixon is still president, and nuclear war is on the horizon, the main plot revolves around Rorschach (the mental vigilante) investigating the murder of one of their number from ‘back in the day’. As more of the costumed adventurers are attacked or forced into exile, the more it seems that Rorschach’s assumed paranoia is not so unfounded. It’s much like the usual comic book fare that we all know, but there’s more to the story than that. Watchmen is about the people behind the masks.
When the story was first published it wasn’t in the single volume ‘graphic novel’ format that is readily available today; it was a serial divided into twelve parts, published over the course of about a year by DC Comics. Most of each issue was the standard panel-by-panel visual storytelling method that is comic book staple, but what set them apart from their contemporaries was the supplemental prose piece that sat at the end of each one. These took several formats, including excerpts from the autobiography of one of the first generation of masked vigilantes, an article written by the ornithologist about owls, and a feature on pirate comics. They al, in their own way, add volumes of depth to the narrative.
And that’s just the tip of the iceberg of nuance. A fictional pirate comic called ‘Tales from the Black Freighter’ actually intertwines with the main plot in several places in a number of issues, the author of which is mentioned in the prose feature, and actually has a hand in the final reckoning of the story.
But I’m getting away from my point. As I said, it’s not just about the masks; it’s about the people behind them – both physically, and emotionally, in those who have some stake invested in their fates. The two Bernies are series favourites; a news vendor with an opinion about everything that he isn’t afraid of voicing, and a young boy who sits at the former’s news stand, occasionally listening to him whilst reading ‘Black Freighter’ (which is itself an intelligent piece of metafiction). They represent the most common demographics: the Watchmen universe’s inhabitants, and the comic’s reader – an important voice indeed.
There really is no one thing that makes Watchmen so special for me; to insinuate there was would be an insult to its other shining gems. The piece as a whole in all its multi-layered, many-faceted glory sits in pride of place on my bookshelf. Whilst not the very first comic I ever read, I shall always consider it to be so. It opened my eyes to what comic books could be, and has set a lofty bar for my future expectations of the genre. Budding writers take note – you could do a lot worse than learn from Alan Moore.
“Who watches the Watchmen?” leers long-faded graffiti from the redbrick of a New York side-alley. An overflowing trashcan nearby adds a faint, sickly odour to the air, as a shadowy figure melts into the night beyond. Replace the word ‘watch’ with the word ‘read’, and for me, the answer should be ‘as many people as possible’.
I came quite late to the comic scene. I’m sure we’re all aware of the of the typical comic book reader stereotypes – spotty, basement-ridden computer nerds with inch-thick glasses, societal rejects who would rather live in ridiculous fantasy worlds, and middle-aged wasters who seem unable to let go of their mothers’ apron strings. Although there’s often no smoke without fire, I find myself scoffing at the notion as a whole. Comic books (or ‘graphic novels’, as those with more adult leanings tend to be called) are an ever more popular medium, no longer so widely regarded as immature crap. As such, I find myself able to dive in headlong without so much as a sarcastic comment from my peers.
This image change is in no small part thanks to Alan Moore. This beardy British weirdo from Northampton created The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (the book, not that sub-par film), inspired the current take on the Batman/Joker relationship in his one-shot story The Killing Joke, and, for my money, matches George Orwell’s vision of a dystopian, totalitarian future with V for Vendetta.
But Watchmen. Watchmen, his magnum opus, is a cut above the rest. I’ll admit, the brief doesn’t look too promising; a bunch of middle-aged, retired superheroes; one is a mild-mannered, slightly podgy Batman-esque ornithologist. Another, the only one who is still active (albeit illegally), is an uncompromising right-wing nut-job with his own particularly brutal brand of justice. Another is a rich ponce with a fondness for purple and a God complex – and that’s next to the only one who actually has any superpowers. An odd bunch for sure, but that’s where the appeal lies. How easy is it really to identify with a heroic staple like Superman, with his startling array of superhuman traits, extra-terrestrial heritage and bright red pants (‘Ugh, I can fly at supersonic speed and see through walls, I have so many problems!’)? Moore’s characters are conflicted, self-doubting and stroppy – and all the more human for it.
Set in an alternative 1985 where America won the Vietnam war, Nixon is still president, and nuclear war is on the horizon, the main plot revolves around Rorschach (the mental vigilante) investigating the murder of one of their number from ‘back in the day’. As more of the costumed adventurers are attacked or forced into exile, the more it seems that Rorschach’s assumed paranoia is not so unfounded. It’s much like the usual comic book fare that we all know, but there’s more to the story than that. Watchmen is about the people behind the masks.
When the story was first published it wasn’t in the single volume ‘graphic novel’ format that is readily available today; it was a serial divided into twelve parts, published over the course of about a year by DC Comics. Most of each issue was the standard panel-by-panel visual storytelling method that is comic book staple, but what set them apart from their contemporaries was the supplemental prose piece that sat at the end of each one. These took several formats, including excerpts from the autobiography of one of the first generation of masked vigilantes, an article written by the ornithologist about owls, and a feature on pirate comics. They al, in their own way, add volumes of depth to the narrative.
And that’s just the tip of the iceberg of nuance. A fictional pirate comic called ‘Tales from the Black Freighter’ actually intertwines with the main plot in several places in a number of issues, the author of which is mentioned in the prose feature, and actually has a hand in the final reckoning of the story.
But I’m getting away from my point. As I said, it’s not just about the masks; it’s about the people behind them – both physically, and emotionally, in those who have some stake invested in their fates. The two Bernies are series favourites; a news vendor with an opinion about everything that he isn’t afraid of voicing, and a young boy who sits at the former’s news stand, occasionally listening to him whilst reading ‘Black Freighter’ (which is itself an intelligent piece of metafiction). They represent the most common demographics: the Watchmen universe’s inhabitants, and the comic’s reader – an important voice indeed.
There really is no one thing that makes Watchmen so special for me; to insinuate there was would be an insult to its other shining gems. The piece as a whole in all its multi-layered, many-faceted glory sits in pride of place on my bookshelf. Whilst not the very first comic I ever read, I shall always consider it to be so. It opened my eyes to what comic books could be, and has set a lofty bar for my future expectations of the genre. Budding writers take note – you could do a lot worse than learn from Alan Moore.
Apocalypse, the Reaper, and Cormac McCarthy
______
As many of my peers will testify, I’m something of a grammatical perfectionist. I used to have something of a reputation for stopping people mid-sentence to correct their syntax; annoying I know, and I’m a lot less anal about it now, but I just couldn’t help myself – a product of my upbringing I’m certain. Murder the written word, and your fate was even worse. ‘There’, ‘their’ and ‘they’re’ were huge points of contention for me, and if ‘your’ writing something for ‘you’re’ assignments, God help you! Don’t even get me started on text-speak...
But as I said, I’m a lot more lenient now. For Cormac McCarthy’s sake, this is probably a good thing. Had I opened The Road two or three years ago, it would have annoyed the hell out of me. Punctuation? Not exactly plentiful. Chapters? Fraid’ not. Half the time it takes the concentrative powers of a brain surgeon to follow who is even speaking, so confusing is the layout of the dialogue. I mean the man hasn’t even bothered to name his characters!
So it makes you wonder why it won the 2007 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction doesn’t it? Poor layout and abundant simple sentences hardly make for compelling literature…do they? As a rule of thumb I would have said not, but then again I’m hardly infallible. Because The Road is actually pretty damn good.
I say ‘pretty’. This book is very bleak; probably not one for Nan – think facing down a Tyrannosaurus Rex with a water pistol during a hosepipe ban. But if, like me, you’re not averted to a healthy dose of woeful desperation, then you can’t go wrong with this.
A mysterious event has decimated the earth and pretty much everything that lives. Those that have survived exist in one of two roles – the hunter and the hunted. Imagine yourself in the shoes of our principal protagonist: a man (who, along with his young son, remains unnamed throughout), forced to live out of a wonky shopping trolley on various scavenged goods, all the time fearing that the next person you meet will try and gnaw your legs off while you’re still alive. The very boots in which your are imagining yourself are falling apart for the lack of a decent cobbler, your wife – the mother of your child – is dead, and every five seconds said child is asking if everything’s going to be all right! Credit crunch not looking quite so bad now, is it?
McCarthy sends little respite their way, either. If it isn’t the terrifyingly human cannibals dogging their steps, it’s starvation, illness, or the myriad other horrors of this hideous post-apocalyptic world. When a glimmer of hope does shine through, you’re trained to stay on edge, never really allowing yourself to feel any relief – just as the father and son don’t either. Though the days are grim, the nights are grimmer still. The man is dogged by dreams of his former life, a life that is but a fairy tale to the boy (who was born after the earth-shattering event). Each dream drags him a little further down into his malaise, until you wonder why he bothers to carry on at all. Those last two bullets left in his pistol would start looking pretty inviting if I were him – why not end it?
But he can’t. You don’t want him to! Even when he just wants to give up; lay down and die you feel like screaming ‘no!’ at the book. McCarthy is a crafty fellow and no mistake. You need them to succeed, somehow, for you to have any faith left in humanity at all.
So not a happy one then, but as I said this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s terrifying, it’s chilling, and worst of real, it could be real – but by God is it compelling! The lack of visual breaks in the prose are a harsh barrier, not affording you a place to stop even if you need to. All this, and more, will annoy the hell out of the grammatical demon in your life, and the abject bleakness is certainly not for everyone. The Road has drawn criticism for its minimalist style, but ultimately it is a case of preference, and if you can stomach this desolate approach, I would heartily recommend this crushing read.
As many of my peers will testify, I’m something of a grammatical perfectionist. I used to have something of a reputation for stopping people mid-sentence to correct their syntax; annoying I know, and I’m a lot less anal about it now, but I just couldn’t help myself – a product of my upbringing I’m certain. Murder the written word, and your fate was even worse. ‘There’, ‘their’ and ‘they’re’ were huge points of contention for me, and if ‘your’ writing something for ‘you’re’ assignments, God help you! Don’t even get me started on text-speak...
But as I said, I’m a lot more lenient now. For Cormac McCarthy’s sake, this is probably a good thing. Had I opened The Road two or three years ago, it would have annoyed the hell out of me. Punctuation? Not exactly plentiful. Chapters? Fraid’ not. Half the time it takes the concentrative powers of a brain surgeon to follow who is even speaking, so confusing is the layout of the dialogue. I mean the man hasn’t even bothered to name his characters!
So it makes you wonder why it won the 2007 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction doesn’t it? Poor layout and abundant simple sentences hardly make for compelling literature…do they? As a rule of thumb I would have said not, but then again I’m hardly infallible. Because The Road is actually pretty damn good.
I say ‘pretty’. This book is very bleak; probably not one for Nan – think facing down a Tyrannosaurus Rex with a water pistol during a hosepipe ban. But if, like me, you’re not averted to a healthy dose of woeful desperation, then you can’t go wrong with this.
A mysterious event has decimated the earth and pretty much everything that lives. Those that have survived exist in one of two roles – the hunter and the hunted. Imagine yourself in the shoes of our principal protagonist: a man (who, along with his young son, remains unnamed throughout), forced to live out of a wonky shopping trolley on various scavenged goods, all the time fearing that the next person you meet will try and gnaw your legs off while you’re still alive. The very boots in which your are imagining yourself are falling apart for the lack of a decent cobbler, your wife – the mother of your child – is dead, and every five seconds said child is asking if everything’s going to be all right! Credit crunch not looking quite so bad now, is it?
McCarthy sends little respite their way, either. If it isn’t the terrifyingly human cannibals dogging their steps, it’s starvation, illness, or the myriad other horrors of this hideous post-apocalyptic world. When a glimmer of hope does shine through, you’re trained to stay on edge, never really allowing yourself to feel any relief – just as the father and son don’t either. Though the days are grim, the nights are grimmer still. The man is dogged by dreams of his former life, a life that is but a fairy tale to the boy (who was born after the earth-shattering event). Each dream drags him a little further down into his malaise, until you wonder why he bothers to carry on at all. Those last two bullets left in his pistol would start looking pretty inviting if I were him – why not end it?
But he can’t. You don’t want him to! Even when he just wants to give up; lay down and die you feel like screaming ‘no!’ at the book. McCarthy is a crafty fellow and no mistake. You need them to succeed, somehow, for you to have any faith left in humanity at all.
So not a happy one then, but as I said this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s terrifying, it’s chilling, and worst of real, it could be real – but by God is it compelling! The lack of visual breaks in the prose are a harsh barrier, not affording you a place to stop even if you need to. All this, and more, will annoy the hell out of the grammatical demon in your life, and the abject bleakness is certainly not for everyone. The Road has drawn criticism for its minimalist style, but ultimately it is a case of preference, and if you can stomach this desolate approach, I would heartily recommend this crushing read.
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