Sunday Animation

The problem is rooms become slowly puzzled by
their gradual transformation into basements
then they turn suddenly
to shake you from sleep like a worried aunt:
it’s late! It’s late.

Lamination of shadows
overworked carpets start harping on
about duress or criminal discovery.
Air is sandy, withstood only in periods of about
an hour, and only occasionally do you try to clutch
your head, which is out in front of you.

Perhaps a swift hand-wrist-slide
over the table which has contracted carpal tunnel –
probably electric flies will spew out and spew
and books in piles in piles like those brooms
that were made sentient by mickey mouse, now
apprentice to the warming room
which you begin to seal off
with humming darkness; scarf up, eyes on the prize
of an early night. Those “Good morning!” hours.

It’s all in the spirit
of undoing the day isn’t it, it didn’t
load immediately, doesn’t submit to the tips
of your fingers way the curtains do.


Now, Wash Your Hands.

H and J are in their separate bathrooms and have been sitting on respective toilets for the last however long. It is around 8am.

H: Ill aim to get there as soon as possible

J: good

J wipes

J: sorry its been difficult

J: I’ll make it up you.

J: promise

H: it’s okay

H: it’s not your fault

H begins to wipe but then pauses, clenching for a moment. J begins to type, then stops and deletes.

J: but the

H: rememmber though

H: tha

J: I

H: same for both me and you

H: i dont want you to feel bad

H: she wouldnt want that

J: yes

J: I undertamnd

J does another kind of probing wipe. Deposits in toilet.

H: will you get the train

H: ?

J: no. Bus

H: okay

H: and have you finished it

J: what.

J flushes once.

H: eulogy

J: yes

J: its finished

H: good

H: alright

H: i hope it wasnt too difficult

H: for you I mean

J: It’s done. I said I’d do it.

J: I wrote it.

J: so don’t worry

H drops phone. Picks it up again.

J: it’s the hardest things I’ve ever had to write

J: but not like in actual composing

J: I could think of what to say. Something else

J: the way the words looked on a screen on a notepad

J: they just looked small

J, unsatisfied with the results of the first, flushes again

H: right

H: okay

J: they just looked like the didn’t make sense enough

J: like every word was looking over its own shoulder

J: worried

J: basically it worried me

J types all of this standing just over the toilet, trousers around ankles, reassessing the bottom of the toilet bowl.
H is yet to get up off of the toilet seat.

H: why did it worry

H: you

H: Im sorry you had to do it on your own

H: yo know i couldnt

H wipes

H: i miss her too much

Flushes a third time.

H: I couldn’t say it

J: yeah.

J: it’s juset

J: just*

J: it’s important, obviously

J: but weirdly important

J: like the sum of a person given to me to say

J:  and I have to CREATE that idea too

J: its like here’s their life and you have to create it for them after their death
ecause they obviously can’t anymore.

J: and you’ve got to do it while you’re grieving still

J: andm it will define everyone else’s version of them

J washes hands. The phone is on the side of the sink.
Nothing is sent for a time.
Some messages are typed but then aborted.

H: oksy.

H: are you doing okay at the moment

H: just talk to me if you need

H: I can come by yours before

H is now frozen on the toilet seat. Tears stream down their face, front, genital area, mix with the still faeces in the bottom of the bowl. Mucus has reached the lips. Some tears hit the screen of the phone before it is dropped and hands reach for forehead and forehead reaches for floor.

J: it’s okay.

J is walking out of the bathroom

J: I’ll see you there.

Millennial Perspectives: A-lvl Students on Academic Criticism and Contemporary Practice

Recently, I ran my final English Extension seminar of the year. Leading on from the critical theory discussions we’d been having in class about the notion of literary value, I decided to see what the students thought of the business of studying contemporary fiction. Contemporary fiction is part and parcel of the AQA B A2 English Literature course, but how would students respond to the questions about what we ‘do’ with current texts? How would they view their own study of contemporary texts? The title of the session was ‘An academic or a geek? A discussion about contemporary textual practice’. Seven AS English Literature students attended. I asked them to read a short extract from Robert Eaglestone’s ‘Contemporary fiction in the academy: towards a manifesto’ where the question about academics and geeks was posed, and then we moved on to ask some questions about studying contemporary fiction.

I was really impressed with how they came to identify some of the central issues that arise when thinking about this sort of practice. We started with the academic/geek distinction, an idea that Eaglestone identifies as about “knowledge inside and outside the academy”. How would students distinguish between the “profession” of the English Literature academic and the geek, where the latter “may know as much (or more) or have read as much (or more)” than the former? One student –who proudly called themselves a Game of Thrones nerd – suggested that geeks might have similar subject knowledge to academics “but do something different” with the text. “It’s more personal, they’re emotionally involved with the characters… the aim of what they do with the text is different”. In response, another student gave this perspective on the academic: “the academic has devoted their life to the study of this text. It’s a question of commitment… a geek is only a geek sometimes, they can pick and choose”. A further contribution summed it up with the idea that perhaps “all academics are geeks, but not all geeks are academics”. Students felt academic was clearly a prestige term, but that there were other important considerations here, including the notion of who listens to the outputs from these different kinds of specialists. Certainly students felt that they read more general online publications about texts than academic critique – blogs, social networking sites – and that “academics write for other academics”. This wasn’t seen as an entirely negative statement. Students felt that the advantage the academic has is access to other extremely specialised perspectives. We introduced the idea of peer review as an important way to sustain the quality of discussion, something which might be more varied in online communities outside the academy.

This led us on to the discussion of academic texts and journals. The consensus was that academic texts were “intimidating” and sometimes “dull”. Students felt that their A-lvl discussion – along with literary articles they might read as part of it – was more accessible than academic journal articles. “I’m not sure how to go about reading an academic paper” said one student “it’s not something that we get taught explicitly, and we’re not exposed to it as much at this level, apart from to think about ‘alternative perspectives’”. Others said that if there was a “stripping aware of jargon” they might find academic texts more accessible.

I then asked them to consider what we mean by the word “contemporary” when it comes to studying fiction, and whether there was value in thinking about studying texts written now. Each student gave different definitions of what they felt it should refer to. Some students focused on contemporary as defined by audience – “who is reading it now and what are they saying about it”. Another student focused on the idea of watershed historical events – when asked whether we had gone beyond a ‘post-war’ period, they responded “I think we are kind of still in the ‘post-war’ period. Certainly it was really important but I think it might not have as much of an impact now. There are other big influential events, such as 9/11.” Others students defined the contemporary as being issues led, suggesting fiction dealing with feminism or technological networks would be important for this kind of study. One student response acknowledged some of the inherent problems with studying the contemporary – “it’s such a broad topic, with texts from all over the world and different genres being part of it. To critique the contemporary needs a certain way of thinking.” No-one could really agree on a time-frame for what constituted the contemporary, with some saying that texts not from the recent past might still provide important perspectives on contemporary issues, and so could be considered valid for inclusion in this kind of critical archive.

Tellingly, as we moved on to think about specific themes in these texts, it was said that fiction now was about “trying to look forward… it emphasises a kind of ‘not knowing’ about society”. While we ranged around, the students said that obviously their status as the millennial generation influenced their perspective on what issues were important. On looking at extracts from Jenni Egan’s A Visit From The Goon Squad and Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, one student later commented that they showed “a fascination with an apocalyptic vision of the world…[that] the way we lead our lives today is driving us further away from what it means to live a ‘purposeful’ life […] it is possible that in another hundred years or so, our now contemporary texts will be seen as nihilistic.”

It was extremely exciting to hear students thinking critically about these sorts of issues. Certainly it raises ideas about how students think about academic writing and about the worth of studying current texts. I’ve always tried to expose classes to different academic sources, whichever text is in the frame for study, but the session made me think that we need more signposting around academic criticism at A-lvl. Perhaps teachers need to directly address some of the prejudices students have about what it means to write about English Literature in a way which is valid, intelligible and important.


With thanks to the following students from Central Sussex College:

Eleanor Doherr
Rhiannon Phillips
Eleanor Martin
Ella Mayne
Edward Southgate
Evangeline Taylor
Max West

Eaglestone, R. ‘Contemporary fiction in the academy: towards a manifesto’, Textual Practice, Vol. 27, No. 7, 2013, p. 1089-1101

Social Networking ‘Chat’ in Fiction – some thoughts about what it does

Ben Lerner’s Leaving The Atocha Station makes me think that chat logs/IMs are uniquely powerful narrative modes. There’s a big chunk of this kind of communication between the narrator and a distant friend in the middle of the novel. It’s almost like we run along the keystrokes as we read this sort of conversation/interaction (computer-mediated-communication is too technical a term for this stuff I feel). The clunkiness of a keyboard input is transformed into a kind of hyper-dialogue – with one of the magic tricks being that we’re made to think of the character *thinking* of how to articulate themselves. Keener empathetic link, perhaps. Perhaps this is just more post-modernism? Or perhaps when we read chat logs in novels they become defamiliarised and we view them as something that isn’t just a conversation or dialogue. We might say they are concentrated narratives, because they are a character’s constant retelling of themselves within the retelling of another story*. (*I hope you feel good about the Inception pun you just made.) Obviously we have to be careful about what assumptions we make about characters (i.e. constructs, representations, not human beings) but let’s go with this way of thinking for now.

A quick distinction that I’m playing with at the moment. Dialogue is immediate, spoken with full awareness of the other (i.e. the person that isn’t you). Interaction via chat is made differently because it is mediated by a computer. It’s inputted/created with a conspicuous awareness of the self-as-other (i.e. you understand there’s a version of you which isn’t really you ).

The most striking moment of this novel was not ‘told’ by the narrator but presented on the page through said chat dialogue. (Are some of the most moving parts of our lives actually these moments now? I say this entirely seriously. No vague arguments about ‘real human connection’ or ‘wasn’t it better when’. We connect now in this way, quite a bit. Let’s think about that critically.) The things that happen, it seems – the important things – have always happened to a version of ourselves i.e. a remembered self, or a slightly altered version of the self that actually did those things. Now, instead of memory/tangible objects being a representation of those different versions, we have a constant digital record. The important event – a traumatic death, in Lerner’s novel – is rendered significant for being removed from the general voice of the narrative and turned into one of these records. Two typed voices comprise the retelling of (or the creating of) the story of a tragic death, as witnessed by the narrator’s friend. At the end of the story, the friend moves on prosaically  – “How is Spain?” – in a way which is absurd, maybe horrible, but entirely recognisable. At that moment we understand that this kind of controlled, highly artificial-yet-sincere interaction was the only way to effectively articulate the traumatic experience the friend had gone through. It was retold to themselves as much as ‘told’ to our narrator. So the chat log can go beyond the confines of other epistolary devices – letters, telegrams – because it is immediately and consciously not one-voice-writing-to-another but two voices writing at themselves and each other simultaneously.

The automatic concern about computer-mediated-communication and online interactions is that we’re distancing other human beings. Simultaneously, though, we’re uncovering an understanding of how we construct ourselves – an understanding not asked for, or fully comprehended each time we glimpse it, and this is therefore disconcerting. Maybe that’s the real fear… the important thing, we learn about the stuff that we normally don’t have reflected at us by face-to-face communication. For Lerner, in Leaving The Atocha Station, the chat log is a site of self-understanding rather than just a handy long-distance connecting device for the story. In a similar way to how Lerner’s narrator reflects throughout the novel, it forces the reader to consider how they make-themselves-up.


They say “Corridor your plans for spring years.
Note the leaves trying hard to lie
low like your bare back on cut grass.
Keep carefully organised by filing away your hands.
Trust the structure, it knows what to do,
never stop blotting ink.”

Scrub your face, skin blue ink.
Morning threatens fall into years
as early dust begins to settle. To always do
the same is a pensioned lie.
Find out if those hands
will clear the mirror – tear the light – grow the grass.

Stop qualifying. Seize mouths, grass
on those naive enough to think that digital ink
would destroy it all. Have them put up their hands.
Regret descends, the span of light years,
when you keep giving yourself the lie.
Whatever the future, if it’s different it will do.

Not a trick – think then do
the thing. Drink the dry grass
of the newest summer lie
to make it memorable and permanent. Ink
in myths of recent fears,
to touch the time which crawls through Air’s hands.

Your numbers on sheet/screen are underhand,
“We cannot be seen to be pressing undo.”
Measure millenia brick-by-day-by-year

but gorgeous thoughts. Have no alibi –
never keep it all “in-hand”.
The rooms in that house to come are invisible ink,
will reveal themselves as we don’t and do,
magical like unmisting glass.
There will be years.

Now is not the time for the long lie or the “I do”.
Wires, tendril hands, are optic grass
Which run – down fingers – as ink – as warmest tears.

Wit, Weather and Grace

Realise I haven’t brushed my teeth in
maybe three days
the slime around the edges
of the gums is hardening into
a little shield against which
the water clanks. What worth
in everything from before?
It was not somnolent I’m sure – years
that were a constant change,
that were a constant
struggling in a gale against some image of
uptown girl
in contrast with  “marry me marry me”
on slate floor, the one which scratched easily.
Still in search of the painting
one I shamefully
tried panting into your breath at the end of each day,
rain water, heaving smoke,
clawing at melting dresses in receding air
always almost
but a bright brilliant never

enacted now in minutes which are not of the same type.
Now there are minutes not of the same type.

A voice grins out of the reflection
translating the grammar of the lonely wet mirror melody,
blue underneath, above and in eye holes
(volume just high enough)
a shimmering guide, an outstretched nail in
quiet light:
evidence suggests we know enough already,
know enough to inhale whiskied cells
and ask only where the next meal will be,
whether or not there is a home here
that will grow granite roots unknown cultures,
be able to explain floating in a sea
at the edge of the eye, yawning
then yearning then bursting on the tips
of each oncoming wave, to drown
the life to come with nectar tomorrow,
dipping brushes into ambrosia making the
symmetry neutral helping shape the foreground,
getting as close as possible in hue
to the handmade white light,
to the shock point
not of no return but eternal recurrence, joy of
misery, soft tornado spiral patterns, again again
again, like a wire frayed and still, still fraying
possibly golden growing off of petty funerals.

Don’t try to make any mistakes can’t
really call it what it is yet – but
ask genuinely “why not?”
Tell even those to whom you would rather not speak:

“Spend your time folding flowers
in the coming months now
spend your time repairing
tying veins together
enjoy the time you spend
months in coming, your
tying now the repairing
in together spend
veins folding in
coming time after
months together now
in flowers enjoy
repairing spend
the time golden
after repairing
growing veins
time folding
the coming now
tying together all
it is and was
it is
and was
all all only
wit, weather and grace.”