Text by Karl Galea

AcademicPg 3

Poetry as Legacy — Reuben Zammit

Pg 13 ‘The Rat’: a Phenomenological Reading Christine Tong

CreativePoems Pg 23 The Pianist - Mark Anthony Fenech Pg 24 Twilight in Galway - Katryna Storace Pg 25 I Killed a Man - Andrew Galea Pg 26 The Wretched of the Earth - Ritianne Agius

Stories Pg 29 The Man of Books - Robert Caruana Pg 34 Three-legged Race - Reuben Zammit Pg 37 The Room at the Top of the Tower - Clayton Hili

CulturalPg 43 Bertie Bott - Emily Jones Pg 45 Bartleby Review - Reuben Zammit Pg 47 Turkey - Rachelle Gauci Pg 49 Laughter in the Dark - Teodor Reljic

Editorial Note It’s been a tumultuous few months. Deadlines have been over-shot, countless meetings timetabled and then rescheduled; the financial and technical difficulties were at many a time seemingly insurmountable…yet the Editorial team has come through it together and can proudly present the first ever Department of English student association publication, TEXT — which aims to showcase written work, encourage debate, challenge established ideas, explore matters related to academia and develop cultural awareness. Ambitious? We don’t think so. We believe that there are hundreds of people out there who have something worthwhile to say, who do not get the right opportunities to say it. For those of you who have felt discouraged from presenting work of whatever nature, for no justifiable reason, here is your opportunity. TEXT receives ACADEMIC work (theoretical work), CULTURAL work (travel, music, theatre, computer game, food and film reviews) and CREATIVE work (prose, poetry and essay) contributions. The standard envisaged is maintained through a careful selection process involving student peers and lecturers who approve texts in accordance with the established editorial policy. This is an exciting and prestigious development in the study of English in Malta and one that the team all happily threw themselves into cultivating and actualising. I take this opportunity to thank the Section Co-Ordinators: Reuben, Christine, Elizabeth and Neville. I would also like to thank Maria and the brilliant Creative Team, (Carla, Rachel, and Sarah), for bringing the whole project to life with their mesmerising work. To all the writers who showed their courage, support and enthusiasm in contributing to this first issue, you’re all very talented. To the

proof readers Mark-Anthony, Rachelle and Clayton for their patience. A big thank you to Karl Galea for his work in putting the entire publication online. To James for his initiative a couple of years ago in spearheading the whole thing. Finally, this project could not have happened without the generous and steady support of the lecturers who so graciously donated their time and energy in helping us students; Dr James Corby, Dr Maria Frendo and Professor Callus, we are very grateful. Enjoy!

Andrew Editor

If you are interested in contributing to TEXT, please contact us on: textpublication@gmail.com

Academic Section: Reuben – rzam0019@um.edu.mt Culture Section: Neville – nevillebezzina@gmail.com Creative Section: Christine – christine.tong@yahoo.com Creative Director: Maria – babettopolis@gmail.com

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Poetry as Legacy

3 In English writing we seldom speak of tradition, though we occasionally apply 3 3 3 3

its name in deploring its absence. We cannot refer to ‘the tradition’ or to ‘a tradition’; at most, we employ the adjective in saying that the poetry of So-and-so is ‘traditional or even ‘too traditional.’1

3 It Was A Great Marvel That They Were In The Father Without Knowing Him2

3 3 3 3 3 3

The first passage is T.S. Eliot’s two opening sentences in his ‘Tradition and the Individual Talent.’ Eliot then goes on to expand on his idea of literary production as inextricable from the whole poetic tradition preceding it. The content of the essay is an

3 argument for the impersonality of poetry as a vehicle for a culture’s tradition; brought 3 about through the poet, whose function is to allow his creativity to be ‘a particular me3 3

dium […] in which impressions and experiences’ of the culture he lives in and is part

of ‘combine in peculiar and unexpected ways’, poetry is not so much individualistic –

in the Romantic sense – as collective.3 The second passage is the title to The Anxiety of Influence’s prologue. Quot-

3 3

ing Gnostic literature, Harold Bloom introduces his own theory on poetic production.

Every poet lives in ‘[t]he [f]ather’, or, in Bloom’s own words, ‘the dead poet lives in

3 1

3 3

2 3

T.S. Eliot, ‘Tradition and the Individual Talent’ on Bartleby.com http://www.bartleby.com/200/sw4.html [accessed 30

December 2008], para. 1 of 18. Harold Bloom, The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry (New York: Oxford University, 1973), p. 3 T.S. Eliot, para. 15 of 18.

4 4 4 4 one’.4 Like Eliot, he interprets poetry as being a product of the past as much as of the 4 present. No matter how strong a poet’s conscious denial of poetic influence, strong hints of such influence from the past will always be found to have had a major impact on the shaping of his poetic sensibility. Eliot’s and Bloom’s views complement each other in that both, as compara-

4 4 4 4

tive theories, insist on an indelible link between past and present. This inter-temporal

relationship is not one way. ‘[T]he past should be altered by the present as much as

the present is directed by the past’ writes Eliot;5 Bloom, describing the fully success-

ful poet’s final phase in his artistic development, arrives at the same premise of twoway influence when he concludes his introduction; ‘the new poem’s achievement

4 4 4

makes it seem to us, not as though the precursor were writing it, but as though the 4 later poet himself had written the precursor’s characteristic work.’6 4 Not wholly unrelated to this idea of mutual influence between past and pre-

sent is both critics’ claim, just after their initial exposition, that originality need not be

compromised by the shadow of the past: ‘[t]o conform merely would be for the new

work not really to conform at all; it would not be new, and would therefore not be a

work of art’ Eliot qualifies the poet’s artistic homage to the past.7

In a similar parry against misinterpretation, Bloom explains that ‘poetic influence need not make poets less original; as often it makes them more original,

4 4 4

Harold Bloom, ‘Poetic Origins and Final Phases’ in Modern Criticism and Theory, ed. by David Lodge with Nigel Wood

(Harlow: Pearson Education Limited, 200), p. 224. 5 6 7

T.S. Eliot, para. 4 of 18.

4 4

Harold Bloom, The Anxiety of Influence, p. 16.

4 T.S. Eliot, para. 5 of 18.

5 5 5 5

though not therefore necessarily better.’8 Herein can be deciphered, within what

may be casually dismissed as a spirit identical to Eliot’s, the first clear indication

of a split in critical perspective. If for Eliot conformity would betray art in not

presenting anything new, for Bloom originality is not an important criterion; rather,

poetic influence ‘makes [poets] more original’ but ‘not therefore necessarily bet-

ter.’ Bloom actually juxtaposes originality against quality.

The poet’s development as described by Bloom is a circular cycle, starting

5 and ending with a movement superimposed on the initial source of poetic influ5 ence, the ‘precursor’. The initial positions, ‘Clinamen’ and ‘Tessera’, are an at5 5

tempt at improving the precursor through ‘misprision’ – ‘misreading’; a ‘swerve’ –

or ‘complet[ion]’ – attaching a sense beyond that of the precursor. As such, their

product bears a direct and little-mediated relationship with the Bloomian first

cause, the precursor’s work. The following three steps, ‘Kenosis’,

‘Daemonization’ and ‘Askesis’, are a persistent movement of the poet away from

the precursor, and escalate gradually to the culmination of the poetic career,

‘Apophrades’, a dramatic ‘return of the dead’; a return to origins where the precur-

5 5

sor no longer haunts the ‘ephebe’ but the ephebe haunts the older poet ‘as though the later poet himself had written the precursor’s work.’9 The Bloomian perspective

5 therefore can be said not to promote originality in the common usage of the word 5 as synonymous with ‘novel’, but to advocate a parallelism of reversion to and 5 8

5 9

5 5

Harold Bloom, The Anxiety of Influence, p. 7. Harold Bloom, The Anxiety of Influence, pp. 14-16.

6 6 6 building upon the original, the precursor poet and forefather. The best way a poet

can be ‘original’ is to appear to be the origin of his own precursor’s creations.

The ephebe owes his poetic sensibilities to one father-poet, his original;

all other allegiances the poet may owe (in ‘the aboriginal poetic self’, i.e. his poetic

sensibilities, not style) may be traced in a direct line through the closest poetic pre-

cursor.10 In other words Bloom advocates a lineal succession of poet-hood, the

inheritance of a sensibility through poetic ancestry, starting with the First Original

6 6

of the Enlightenment, John Milton. The only interruption to this linearity is when 6 ‘[s]trong poets’ overpower the father-poet and take his place.11 Yet even then, line6 arity is only distorted into a new linear pattern. The fact that Bloom himself starts his essay ‘Poetic origins and final

6 6

phases’ by making a point of there being very few ‘[s]trong poets’ in English lit-

erature – a point he reinforces by compiling a short list of such poets in the modern

Anglo-Saxon canon which he implies as being more or less all-inclusive – exposes

a certain degree of difficulty in applying his theory in practice. Robert Browning,

to take one of Bloom’s examples, is a strong poet. Influenced by Shelley’s poetry,

he managed in the culmination of his poetic career to win his struggle with fatherhood so that the two-way connection with the past was established: supposedly, or

6 6 6

so Bloom’s argument entails, Browning can be read in Shelley as Shelley can be 6 read in Browning. 6 10

Harold Bloom, ‘Poetic Origins and Final Phases’, p. 224.

Harold Bloom, ‘Poetic Origins and Final Phases’, p. 218.

6 6

7 7 7 7

Bloom’s critical perspective on intertextuality is perhaps most sharply de-

fined in all its inferences by a negative example, a non-’[s]trong’ poet. Such a poet

who fails to make the Bloomian mark is – ironically, and also revealingly, in the con-

text of this discussion – Eliot. Bloom does grant Eliot his portion of ‘considerable

talent’; yet, because Eliot refused to grapple with one fatherhood and overcome it;

because he chose instead a pantheistic version of literature where his gods were many

7 7

and where he could join their society through communion instead of struggle; because, in his case, ‘strength [was] evaded or never attained’;12 because of all this, T.S.

7 Eliot is therefore not a strong poet in Bloom’s judgement. 7 Eliot’s perception of tradition is somewhat more collective and communal as

7 7

opposed to the Bloomian hereditary. ‘We cannot refer to ‘the tradition’ or ‘a tradi-

tion’ because there is just one tradition, a giant conglomeration of everything that was

imagined in Western culture. ‘Tradition is a matter of much wider significance. It

cannot be inherited, and if you want it you must obtain it by great labour.’13 Instead of

a struggle with the father, the poet faces a wide ocean of historical significance, Tra-

dition, and must immerse himself in it successfully enough to be assimilated within it;

What happens is a continual surrender of himself as he is at the moment to

something which is more valuable. The progress of an artist is a continual

7 self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality[,] 14 7 but without being drowned and spent out of history and artistic relevance 7 12

7 13

7 7

Harold Bloom, ‘Poetic Origins and Final Phases’, p. 218. T.S. Eliot, para. 3 of 18. T.S. Eliot, para. 9 of 18.

8 8 8 through ‘‘conform[ing] merely’’.

Bloom posits the poet in a struggle of poetic sensibility, of poetic

‘personality’, as it were, against the ‘Father’; Eliot extinguishes all ‘personality’ as

the poet must find his space and establish his own self (through ‘self-sacrifice’)

within Tradition by creating his own relationships and ties within this same gargan-

tuan structure, with those ghosts of the past which formed him, ‘that which we

know.’15 The crux of this poly-dimensional intertextuality in contradistinction to

8 8

Bloomian linearity in influence is best summed up by Eliot himself: 8 8 To proceed to a more intelligible exposition of the relation of the poet to

the past: he can neither take the past as a lump, an indiscriminate bolus, nor can he

form himself wholly on one or two private admirations, nor can he form himself

wholly upon one preferred period.16

8 8

Eliot’s idea of intertextuality is streamlined; the past is not ‘a lump, an indiscriminate bolus’ but a multi-faceted reality composed of smaller units – ages and social backgrounds – further split into still smaller individual units, all interrelated together in an indefinitely growing web of connections. To succeed in accessing

8 8 8 8 8

this intertextuality as an artist, the poet must (i) neither ‘form himself wholly’ on 8 only a few of the smallest units, i.e. individual past poets, (ii) nor ‘form himself’ on 8 15 16

T.S. Eliot, para. 7 of 18.

T.S. Eliot, para. 6 of 18.

8 8

9 9 9 9

just one unit of collective sensibility, i.e. a particular aesthetic epoch.

It is easy to see how Eliot’s exposition of literary intertextuality is less limit-

ing and more encompassing than Bloom’s; to a certain extent, all literary periods have

dipped into this collective well of tradition. The Augustans and the Romantics, to

take a case in point, though each fore-grounded values antagonistic to the other’s,

both founded their very being on classical tradition. It is as equally impossible to

ignore the influence of Horatian satire in Rome’s cultural apex on Pope as it is to dis-

9 regard that of the Greek lyric on Keats. Yet the repercussions of influence go deeper 9 than visual form; the Horatian satire vibrates with the male, forceful, rationalising 9 9

spirit of the expansionist Roman Empire while the classical lyric expresses the Hel-

lenic feminine, graceful and reflective. The divide in post-Enlightenment poetic sen-

sibility which Eliot identifies in his essay ‘The Metaphysical Poets’, ‘the difference

between the intellectual poet and the reflective poet’17, might be in part attributable to

this partiality to one side of the experience of tradition, this formation ‘wholly upon

one period’ which Eliot advises against. In their selectivity, these two literary periods

failed the test of ‘self-sacrifice’ of sensibility. The ideal poet must denude himself of

9 9

all his personal sensibility to acquire the more collective and fuller sensibility of tradition.

9 Bloom’s intertextuality not only disregards this Eliotian code of pantheistic 9 comparative appreciation, as it were, but turns it ruthlessly on its head. The past is a 9 17

T.S. Eliot, ‘The Metaphysical Poets’ on Centenary College of Louisiana homepage http://personal.centenary.edu/

~dhavird/TSEMetaPoets.html [accessed 22 January 2009].

9 9

10 10 10 lump of kinds to be measured against, sizing ephebe up to precursor; if Eliot writes

that the newer poet must ‘not be judged to be as good as, or worse or better than, the

dead’18, Bloom does compare a Wilde to a Coleridge and a Stevens to a Whitman,

and what’s more, does pass comparative judgement on them. Furthermore, the

whole theory, as elucidated above, making a hereditary succession of poetic sensi-

bility, (i) the poet does form his own artistic sensibility on ‘one or two private admi-

rations’ – though, as Bloom clarifies in his essay, ‘No poet […] can choose his pre-

10 10

cursor, any more than any person can choose his father’, thus excluding conscious 10 choice –19 and (ii) the concept of ‘period’ is radicalised, implicitly offered as an 10 analogy to generation, with each successive generation succumbing more and more

under the ever increasing weight of its forefathers, so as to in the same stroke both

enforcing (through the precursor) formation on a single period and stripping this

uni-dimensional attachment of any importance, since each period is a progressive

self-mutilation of the Renaissance (itself a revival of Classical culture). Hardy is the

son who overpowered his father Shelley who overpowered his own father Milton

who in his turn overpowered his father Spenser – a repetitive family romance where

time loses all significance. The similarities and differences between these two critical perspectives can

10 10 10

be best epitomised in an ostentatious but well-suited allegory, a religious one in10 spired by Milton and Shelley in their diverging pastoral elegies, Lycidas and 10 18 19

T.S. Eliot, para. 5 of 18.

Harold Bloom, ‘Poetic Origins and Final Phases’, p.220.

10 10

111 111 111 111

Adonais. The Bloomian ‘strong’ poet must reach his height the Christian way, sur-

111

passing the excellence of previous ‘saints’ that may have elicited an unconscious in-

111

fluence on his sensibilities – for ‘[t]here entertain him all the Saints above’, being

111

made their peer through his successful struggle –20 and sharing their inheritance, the

111

closer proximity to the godhead Milton as the unsurpassable Father. The Eliotian

111

ideal poet must follow a different path: he must be ‘made one with Nature’. He must

111

submerge himself in Tradition by forfeiting all claims to a particular sensibility, to an

111 individuality, even his humanity – ‘for my meaning is, that the poet has, not a 111 ‘personality’ to express, but a particular medium’ – and become again one with the 111 111 111

earth, the past, which formed him, yet shifting its composition appreciably in the process.

111

Reuben Zammit

111 111 111

John Milton, Lycidas on Bartleby.com http://www.bartleby.com/101/317.html [accessed 22 January 2009].

111 111 111 111 111 111 111 111 111

Percy Bysshe Shelley, Adonais on Bartleby.com http://www.bartleby.com/41/522.html [accessed 22 January 2009]. T.S. Eliot, para. 15 of 18.

12 12 12

List of Works Cited

12 12

Bloom Harold, ‘‘Poetic Origins and Final Phases’, in Modern Criticism and Theory, ed. by David Lodge with Nigel Wood (Harlow: Pearson Education Limited, 2000).

12 12

Bloom Harold, The Anxiety of Influence (New York: Oxford University, 1973).

Eliot T.S., ‘Tradition and the Individual Talent’, on Bartleby.com http:// www.bartleby.com/200/sw4.html [accessed 30th December 2008].

12 12 12 12

Eliot T.S., ‘The Metaphysical Poets’ on Centenary College of Louisiana homepage http://personal.centenary.edu/~dhavird/TSEMetaPoets.html [accessed 22nd January 2009].

Milton John, Lycidas on Bartleby.com http://www.bartleby.com/101/317.html [accessed 22 January 2009].

12 12 12 12 12

Shelley Percy Bysshe, Adonais on Bartleby.com http:// www.bartleby.com/41/522.html [accessed 22 January 2009].

12 12 12 12 12 12 12 12 12 12 12 12

13 13 13

‘The Rat’: A Phenomenological Reading

13 In an essay propounding the phenomenological aspects of reading a literary text, 13 Wolfgang Iser stresses the distinction between text which is written and text which is 13

read:

13 […] the artistic refers to the text created by the author, and the aesthetic to

the realization accomplished by the reader. From this polarity it follows that

the literary work cannot be completely identical with the text, or with the 13

realization of the text, but in fact must lie halfway between the two. The work

is more than the text, for the text only takes on life when it is realized.1

13 In mentioning these two classifications of text (the latter being understood in

13 13

the wider sense of the subjective idea of a work, or the ‘Work’ in Blanchot’s terms), the artistic and the aesthetic, Iser also designates two of the main constituents of a

work of literature. On the one hand, there is the author or poet, who effectively acts in

writing the text into being; on the other hand, the reader, who completes it through the

act of reading. A third constituent may be said to be the text itself – in this case, the

poem ‘The Rat’ by Don Paterson - which, as shall be argued further on, can be addressed on two different levels, that of the signified and that of the signifier, or in lay-

man’s terms, in what is related to content and what is related to form. This essay shall

attempt a close reading of the poem, which can (to use a postmodern term) be de-

scribed as a sort of ‘meta-poem’; a poem about a poem, and about the act of writing in

itself which also presents the problematic and elusive nature of the text.

13 To begin with, that which the work’s title implies, or promises, is not there. 13 13 13 13 13

The poem is evidently not about a rat, but can be read as the attempt at writing the creature into being, though however, in a way it does fall short of this objective. The 1

Wolfgang Iser, ‘The reading process: a phenomenological approach’, in New Literary History, (1972)

14 14 14 rat is only barely glimpsed , perched on the arm of the reader’s chair. It is but the

mere externalisation of the reader’s efforts to meet what Blanchot calls the writerly 14 ‘summoning’ in order for a text to be subsequently created. In this regard, the poem in itself merely exists. It is the action described as reading which bestows meaning.2

14 14

To read it was to ask the rat to perch on the arm of your chair until you turned the page.

14 3

It is at this point that one begins to notice the relevance in reading ‘The Rat’ from a reader-oriented viewpoint, and also in giving form a certain priority over content.

14 14 14 14

In Blanchot’s words, taken from his essay entitled ‘The Essential Solitude’, which deals primarily with what it means to be a writer conceiving of a work, in a

14 14

state of what he calls solitude, akin to what the ‘young man’ in Paterson’s poem experiences on ‘the island where he kept the only shop’:

14 14

[…] the work of art or literary work is neither finished nor unfinished: it is.

What it says is precisely this: that it is nothing else. He who seeks to make

it express something else finds nothing – that it expresses nothing. He who lives for the work – either to write it or to read it – belongs to the solitude

of what only the word ‘being’ can express – that word language shelters by

concealing it or sets in evidence when it vanishes between the work’s silent

gaps.

14 14

Perhaps this concept may account for the missing rat in the actual poem. 14 In his essay entitled ‘What is an author?’ which deals with the question of author2 It is curious that in a poem about writing a poem, active writing as an action is never mentioned except in reference to the ‘existence’ of such a text as ‘The Rat’, and in the final lines where a mysterious voice asserts that it has never been written. 3 Don Paterson, ‘The Rat’ [ My underlining] 4 Maurice Blanchot, ‘The essential solitude’, 1989

14 14 14 14

15 15 15

ship in much detail, Foucault refers to the self-referentiality of certain texts:

15 Referring only to itself, but without being restricted to the confines of its in-

teriority, writing is identified with its own unfolded exteriority. This means

that it is an interplay of signs arranged less according to its signified content 15

than according to the very nature of the signifier.5

15 15

‘The Rat’ is a poem more concerned with the effect it creates than with what

it contains. Its self-reflexivity is what makes it a ‘meta-poem’, so to say. Its interiority

is its exteriority in the sense that it does not contain what its title purports to contain, and yet it is a poem about a rat, even though the rat does not appear tangibly any-

where in the text. Paterson makes it a point that his readers are constantly aware that

they are reading a poem supposedly about a rodent that has eluded pinning down, but

which is nonetheless a ghostly half-presence. In alluding to the visceral, the scent, the

‘pisshole stare’, the hissing it makes, it is as if Paterson wishes the reader to be in a reading-state of perpetual anticipation of the ‘actual’ work which in reality does not

exist. In fact, as Foucault subsequently states that: ‘in authorship, the point is not to

manifest or exalt the act of writing, nor is it to pin a subject within language; it is

rather a question of creating a space into which the writing subject constantly disap-

pears.’6 In an ambiguous way, this disappearing act is precisely what the rat succeeds

in doing.

A different argument may be adopted - that of the ‘work’ as a pre-existing

larger, or rather, universal ‘Work’ awaiting to be written as expounded by Blanchot –

the rat poem alluded to might perhaps be the product of a next work, yet unwritten by

Paterson, who becomes therefore, the ‘regulator of the fictive’.7 As Foucault posits

over and over, ‘[…] the author does not precede the works, he is a certain fictional principle by which, in our culture, one limits, excludes, and chooses; in short, by

15 15 15

5 6 7

Michel Foucault, ‘What is an author?’ (1977) Ibid Ibid

16 16 which one impedes the free circulation, the free manipulation, the free composition,

decomposition and recomposition of fiction.’8 In this way, it is the author who effec-

tively puts boundaries onto the text, passing judgement, as it were on what the

reader should be exposed to and what not.

Furthermore, if one were to apply Wolfgang Iser’s concept of the readerly

16 16

imagination as linked to visual perceptions of the gaps in a text, the reader would

perhaps begin to understand a certain appropriateness in the lack of the rat. Iser

builds his argument on the idea that perceiving in the text that which one is reading

about deadens the reader’s imaginative efforts. In his view, it is a text’s ‘virtuality’

that gives it its ‘dynamic’ nature. It is the laying out of the text’s objects in such a manner that does not exclude readerly participation.

16 16

Not having the rat as the object of the poem entitles the reader to ‘see’ it with his or her mind’s eye, since it is referred to only in passing. It is essentially

16 16

what remains unwritten into the text, the ‘indeterminacy’ of the rat that allows the imagination to see it. Also, if Paterson had described the young man’s poem to us, or

described the rat itself, we (as readers) would have found ourselves in the same posi-

tion as the readers/critics in the poem’s narrative itself. We would probably have

believed the rat poem to be ‘the best poem ever written about a rat’ because we were

able to see it the way they do. This would have implied passively reading the text,

which is evidently not Paterson’s aim for his readers, whose interaction with the author should be like participating in a ‘game of the imagination’.9

16 16

In taking up this active reading, one appropriates the voices of the poem as one’s own. However, this mentally produced ‘I’ is clearly not one’s own voice, as

16 16

both Iser and Foucault explore. Who does the first person pronoun employed in ‘The 16 Rat’ belong to? Does it issue out of the collective ‘We’ uttered earlier in the poem? 8

Ibid A reference to Sterne in Wolfgang Iser, ‘The reading process: a phenomenological approach’, in New Literary History, (1972) 10 Michel Foucault, ‘What is an author?’ 9

16 16 16

17 17 17

Is it the young man or indeed Don Paterson’s voice, becoming his own critic? If so, is

the final sing-song chant spoken by the poem, which, anthropomorphised, accuses its

own author of not having written it? Or does the child-like accusation, maybe directed towards the critics by the poem itself, therefore indirectly support the claim that the

young poet is a ‘green’ inexperienced writer?

17 In a way, this poem may be read as a parodying of the role of the critic,

17 17

where the critic is he who classifies everything into neat cells; he who assumes that a certain standard must be met by the writer in every piece of writing that he submits.

This is the ‘relationship of homogeneity, filiation, authentification of texts’ to which

Foucault refers, and which he sustains is indicative of their having been ‘placed under

the same name’.10 It is as though falling short of one’s own established ‘level of pro-

ficiency’ as a writer were insulting and degrading, a self-depreciatory action. The

author must then be ‘defined as a constant level of value’.11

In the poem, this ties to the careful scrutiny to which the young man’s other

poems have been submitted. The eager critical voice describes the avid reading proc-

ess. As though explicitly expecting the surfacing of any defects, the reading is carried

out on ‘lightboxes/ under great lamps.’ This excess of revelatory light does indeed provide them with a verdict: ‘They were not much good.’

17 17

Foucault tries to establish reasons for this quasi-superficial appreciation of

literature. He claims that ‘In our culture […] discourse was not originally a product, a

thing, a kind of goods; it was essentially an act […]. Historically, it was a gesture

fraught with risks before becoming goods caught up in a circuit of ownership.’12 The view that critics appropriate someone else’s art, suggesting changes and arrogantly

17 17 17 17 17

demanding more of the same, clearly for sale purposes, places art as the object of trade. This is precisely what is expressed in the poem, along with the choice of desig10 11 12

Michel Foucault, ‘What is an author?’ Ibid Ibid

18 18 nating the young poet’s working place as a ‘shop’, where the ‘craft’ of poetry is

practiced.

18 18

When the young poet does not show any intention of bending to their will, the subjective voice of the critics is accusatory. Cheekiness, the arrogance of those

inexperienced or envious, and ingratitude are the charges held against him. He is no

longer worth their time, for his success poem was - to use modern terms usually

associated with music - ‘a one-hit wonder’.

However, Foucault later strips the author of any credit granted, very much

in the same way that the poem’s ending does to the critics. He claims that what

makes an individual an author is nothing but a ‘projection’ of what we readers and

critics would have the texts undergo, ‘the connections we make, the traits that we

establish as pertinent, the continuities that we recognise, or the exclusions that we practice.’13 It is no longer a question of the author being the owner of a text, or even the creator and originator of it. He does not precede what one may call an already

18 18

existing body of work, or the Work in Blanchot’s terms, which is the ‘larger idea’

which precedes the act of writing, and which individual authors only reveal in part

with each attempt at writing.

18 18

Ultimately, in the words of the real poet, Don Paterson himself, one can find sustenance for all that has been argued above. ‘I suppose I think of 'The Rat' as

a not very good poem about a very good poem. […] It's about the poem being bigger

than the poet, and the humility we should feel before the former and the indifference

toward the latter - which at the end of the day is a pretty odd designation, useful only

as a way of identifying a reliable source of good poems. But sometimes unreliable 18

sources produce astonishing things.’14

Christine Tong 13 14

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Michel Foucault, ‘What is an author?’ Don Paterson on his poem ‘The Rat’

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List of works cited:

Blanchot, Maurice, ‘The Essential Solitude’, in L’Espace Littéraire, trans. Ann Smock. (University of Nebraska1989).

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Foucault, Michel, ‘What is an author?’, in Modern Criticism and Theory: A reader, ed. Lodge & Wood, UK, (Harlow: Pearson Education Limited, 1988.)

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Iser, Wolfgang, ‘The reading process: a phenomenological approach’, in New Literary History, (1972)

Paterson, Don, ‘The Rat’, in Landing Light (Graywolf Press, 2006)

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The Man of Books

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The old mansion had existed in the urban suburbs for as long as anyone could remember. It had been occupied by a retired professor, who had lived most of his life alone in his home until the day he died. People had attributed his reclusive nature to the sudden disappearance of his adopted son, which had left him heartbroken. Others thought his mind had degenerated into madness. Whatever the reason, over the past ten years he had become simply a memory, and the house had passed into the hands of Mr and Mrs Fletcher, who had been the deceased professor’s house-keepers. One fine Sunday afternoon, people huddled around their T.V. sets to watch police officers escort Mr and Mrs Fletcher out of the house and into waiting squad cars. There was a mob of curious bystanders, journalists and reporters all pressing against a police barricade, trying to get closer to the mansion.

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Sirens wailed and policemen barked orders, as Sally Wade pushed her way through the crowd. She was allowed through the police barrier, whereupon she was greeted by a man holding a file in one hand, with his other arm outstretched. ‘Are you the psychologist?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ she said, shaking his hand and introducing herself. ‘Detective Benson,’ he answered, walking towards the mansion. ‘We’ve got a real strange case here Miss Wade. Police got a report this morning about a man being kept locked up in this building; a squad car was sent over to check it out.’ ‘Who made the report?’ asked Sally. Detective Benson snapped open his file and peered into it. ‘Electrician doing some work in the house,’ he said. ‘We’ve found the guy in the attic. Barred windows, soundproof walls – the works. He’s pretty damn quiet, but we got his name…’ (checking his file again), ‘Alex Robinson.’ ‘That rings a bell.’ ‘It should. He’s been missing, presumed dead, for the past thirty years – apparently he was the former house owner’s adopted son.’ They went up the creaking steps leading to the house, and through the large wooden door. The loud sounds of the crowd and the police sirens instantly

30 30 30 30 became muffled the moment the door clicked shut. The house was dark; Sally could hear Benson fumbling for the light switch. He found it, and an intricate electric chandelier with only three working bulbs lit up, casting a dim yellow illumination across the room they were in.

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The first thing that caught Sally’s eyes was the large winding staircase, with magnificently carved mahogany banisters. There were huge Persian carpets spread across the floor, and maroon curtains which blocked any light coming through the large windows. Everything was covered in dust, and everywhere there was a mouldy smell of decay. Mr and Mrs Fletcher had evidently fallen somewhat behind in their former duties. ‘It’s a big house isn’t it?’ said Detective Benson as he began walking up the steps. Sally answered that it was, and followed him. The detective led Sally up to the attic, which could only be reached by a narrow iron staircase that was concealed behind what was made to look like a broom cupboard. As Sally climbed this final staircase she saw the entrance to the ‘prison’: a metal door with a flap at the bottom through which the prisoner was given food. Benson unlocked it and held it open for her. As she walked in she was immediately impressed by the size of the attic, which in area was even larger than a tennis court. As her eyes peered into the dimness she saw something that was even more surprising though: the whole place was filled with nothing but books.

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Bookshelves were arranged in three rows along the whole length of the attic like huge dominoes. ‘It’s a library, a proper library,’ he said looking around him, shaking his head. ‘Alex Robinson’s been locked for the past forty years inside a library, can you believe it?’ Sally approached the bookshelf that was closest to her and ran her finger along the backs of the books that were neatly stacked upon it. The place was packed with great literature; many of the books were free of dust and had obviously been handled recently. ‘Mr Robinson?’ he called out, tapping a torch against his palm, trying to get it to work., ‘We’ve got someone here to talk to you.’ He began shaking

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the torch violently,. ‘Come on dammit!’ It came on suddenly, and a tiny gasp was heard from a place a few shelves away from them. ‘Mr Robinson?’ called out Benson, flashing the light towards where the sound had come from, but Mr Robinson was hidden behind the bookshelves, and was quiet. Sally put her fingers to her lips to silence the detective, and began walking slowly forward. Her low heels made small thuds on the wooden floor, and she could faintly hear panicked whimpering coming from somewhere ahead. ‘We’re here to help, Mr Robinson,’ she said gently, clutching her bag’s handle tightly. Suddenly, a voice that was deep and strong, quite unlike what she'd expected, bellowed from the darkness: ‘Away! Get thee away; good friend, be gone. Thy comforts can do me no good at all.’ Sally looked back at Benson who seemed positively startled, and was staring at her with wide eyes. She was about to say something when another voice, this time old, frail and thin, spoke pleadingly: ‘But you cannot see your way!’ The first voice then spoke again, bitterly and defiantly: ‘I have no way, and therefore want no eyes: I stumbled when I saw!’ ‘We just want to talk to you, Mr Robinson,’ said Sally, who was very close to the place where the sounds were coming from. Mr Robinson was declaiming a speech that she recognised was taken from The Tempest. He spoke with strikingly different voices: sometimes strong and masculine, and sometimes soft and feminine. As Sally reached the edge of the bookshelf she paused, and looked back at Benson who was crouching behind her. She took the torch from him and, holding it in front of her like a wand, looked around the corner.

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There was Mr Robinson, sitting with his legs crossed on an old mattress that was wedged between the bookshelves. He was a balding man with blue eyes and handsome features. He was clean shaven and his hair was trimmed, which meant that his jailers had not abandoned him completely. His clothes were old, ill-fitting and torn or patched up in places; and he was bare-

32 32 32 32 foot. He peered up at Sally and Detective Benson with terrified eyes, and was trembling violently. ’That’s him!’ said her companion, rather stupidly. She handed him back the torch and crouched down,. ‘We're here to help you Mr Robinson,’ she said gently. Mr Robinson began mumbling under his breath. He was reciting a passage from some literary text that sounded familiar to Sally. She strained to listen, but instantly he began reciting something completely different, this time in a strong Southern American accent. He then switched once again. Benson rolled his eyes. ‘Maybe I should just get some men up here…’ he said. ‘No, not yet!’ She tried to talk once again to. Mr Robinson, but he made a frustrated noise and grabbed a book off a shelf. When he opened the book his trembling decreased, as his eyes darted from one line to the next. She kept trying to communicate with him, but he paid absolutely no attention to her.

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Sally was at a loss. She tried touching him gently on the shoulder, but Mr Robinson seemed to be in a trance, lost in his book. She looked at the shelf – stacked with books all old and yellowing. Suddenly she had an idea. She reached inside her bag and picked out a book that she had been reading. It was a modern work of popular fiction, by a best selling author. Mr Robinson’s eyes fell upon the thick, new book with its glossy cover, and with the author’s name printed in huge gold letters. Suddenly, an expression like that of intense hunger appeared on his face. ‘Mine!’ he growled, lunging for it desperately. Sally stumbled as Detective Benson rushed forward and restrained the snarling Mr Robinson. Sally was quite shaken up, but she maintained her composure. ‘You can have the book, Mr Robinson,’ said Sally with a slight tremor in her voice, ‘if you agree to come with us.’ Mr Robinson calmed down and nodded, holding his hands outstretched. Sally handed him the book.

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In the next five minutes, people watching the events on their television sets saw the mansion’s doors open as Detective Benson came striding out. He was followed by Sally who was holding her coat around Mr Robinson’s shoulders. Camera flashes erupted, and reporters tried to press their microphones over the police, towards Mr Robinson’s face. They shouted questions at him, but he couldn’t hear them. He was staring down at his new book, open on page one.

Robert Caruana

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Three-legged Race

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Lukacs heaved his breath in, then heaved it all out again, starting up a quick rhythm to get over the shock. The cold sweat all over his chest and arms tingled the muscles beneath his skin. He shook his head in quick forceful motions but the dream remained as vivid as it had been, the crude details of it all sickening him. He had to vomit. At least he made it to the loo. He had known Iras since their early teens. He had always liked his redheaded neighbour. If he were to believe her, she had always felt the same about him as well. As the story would have it go, if it was actually true, then they fretted for years in the cage of their adolescence, neither of them confident enough to thrust their heart through the bars. Then a drunk night at Reno’s place found them fucking together. Or rather, Reno’s father did. They didn’t remember the act itself; they could only remember waking up in shock, each taking in the other’s naked body, to the voice of Reno’s father shouting in Italian to the Virgin Mary to save his family from these sons of bitches and their sluts (Reno translated it all a fortnight later over a laugh and a glass of cherryred wine). Crashing a party in full swing on his early return, the poor guy must have felt upset enough, Lukacs thought in retrospect – what with the upset telly set and the empty bottles and puke on the floor, and the thick marijuana smoke cloud that hung all over the apartment – without having to find two naked nineteen-year olds in his and his wife’s double bed. His reaction, grabbing them by their necks and literally throwing them out naked onto the landing, was understandable enough, though it just seemed mean at the time (Reno handed them their stuff back later). They only had time to pillage one of the landing windows before Reno’s father came out again brandishing an electric fan-stand. Running through the streets naked with only a curtain wrapped around the both of them to cover their privates, like in a bizarre, easier but more binding, variant of the three-legged race, felt more exhilarating somehow than the love-making they never remembered. They were one. They arrived at Lukacs’s place (his folks had the graveyard shift) breathless and tired and hung-over, and they had sex again on the hallway floor. Of course they became lovers! Why, how else would anyone except the cynics have it be? She had laughed it all off afterwards and snuggled up to him; he did the same. They were one from then on. He was sure she loved him. Yet a

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thought kept nagging at him. What would have happened if they hadn’t got drunk and fucked back at Reno’s place? She wouldn’t love him. She did say she always liked him. But that was like. People can be liked in different ways, can’t they? And did she? Believing it didn’t necessarily make it true. What if they hadn’t really fucked? They could have just stripped and slept next to each other, conked out. Could something never remembered and never proven have existed? He increasingly brooded around her; she grew alive around him. Yet the Iras he had seen, had felt in his dream was not the same lively Iras she had become. Her vibrant nature was replaced by something deeper he had never suspected could be there; darker, more full-bodied, almost voluptuous – like a vicious animal on a leash. He could again see the fist driving itself into the soft flesh of her face, turning it purple. And the last kick in her groin drew blood.

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At work he did what he could do best. He continually carried heavy crates around the emporium and set the contents on display. Yet today he could not concentrate on doing even that right. The dream had not gracefully ebbed away like all dreams should. He could still sense the restrained but over-spilling lust within her. Thinking it over, it was a loving kind of lust. At first he would not believe she could love a man that way, not even himself. But the more he thought about it the more he accused her of infidelity. He had already called twice to check on her, and her voice had thawed out all suspicion until he felt guilty, for a while. He could only wait. They met that evening at the Flying Cups & Saucers. Unconsciously he nibbled at his cake while she chattered continuously. She chirruped strings of nonsensical words even when they were walking along the road, skirting the brown puddles on the pavement. The grey mist lent a sombre air to the atmosphere, one that not even her mindless drivel could dispel. Lukacs led the absentminded Iras into a badly lighted street. He halted suddenly, clinging to her arm and stopping her roughly but not cruelly. Surprised, she paused in midsentence. He threw her against the wall, hand behind her head to keep her from hurting, pushing his body on hers. Let’s do it here.

36 36 36 36 They were beside a broken neon sign. I … I know we’ve done it in weirder places, but … it’s not exactly … inspiring. I love you. Yes, I love you too, but … Who is he? Who is who? This man you really love? Why, you silly. Can’t we continue … Goddammit tell me who. You’re scaring me. Liar. I need to know. I’m going home. You don’t understand. He’ll hurt you. Who will? The one you love. That’s you. I want to go home. I don’t feel like doing it any more anyway. Liar. Liar. Liar. Liar. He pelted hammer blows on her, determined fists denting her flesh. He could see in there what made him madder. He taught the bitch. He threw her down. He gave her one last kick. He felt something give way in her through the steel-toed boot. She reeled back, over the damaged neon sign, and crashed backwards into the peeling wall. Then, head bent low, he wandered dreamily away. It was for her own good. It was for their own good. He started running.

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Reuben Zammit

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The Room at the Top of the Tower

The echo of hurried climbing rushed up the spiral staircase and met the door. To the left, just above the last of the time-beaten steps, a little creature crouched, waiting. She was ready. As soon as his shadow would appear on the curve of the wall, she would spring her trap. This time he stood no chance. This time she had been clever. With eyes like Simon’s she kept watch on the trembling shadows in front of her, making sure her own was safely at her back. It wouldn’t do to be revealed so foolishly, for after all she was a cunning little thing and she knew it. Before she had come to live here, the occasional crackling of the oil lamps had often been the single sound lent to this seldom-visited place, only now the silence was broken by the approaching clack of shoes on stone. The young girl felt herself breathing deeper and her heart drummed up a rolling beat. She had to get this right. A moment too late and he would catch a glimpse of her foot or her hair, and then all would be lost. A moment too early and the effect would be ruined. And then he stopped. But she knew why. He was only some thirty steps away from her trap now, and he had halted at the last window of the staircase. To get the key for the door of course. Closing her eyes, she could just see him reaching, on tiptoes, for the crack in the sill. He was wearing his new shoes, the ones with the hard rubber heels. The sound they made on the old stone was unmistakable to her. The clacking resumed. Now came the important part. Whenever he was with her he had never resisted the urge to race the last bit to the top. A smile broke on the girl’s face as she remembered all the taunts she shouted at him while he panted his way up the topmost stairs. ‘Be quiet, silly! D’you want your uncle to find out we’re up here?’ he always said to hush her up. But this time he was alone, or so he thought. She waited. The ache in her thighs was irritating her and she almost stood up. But he was too close now. She concentrated away from the pain. The sound of his shoes quickly worked itself into rhythm. He was running. Even though he was alone he was running! In the shadowy corner her smile turned into a smirk. He had no chance at all.

The door shook violently behind her. For less than a second she was startled and

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38 38 38 38 afraid. It was only the wind, and then a voice in her head grew angry and said, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve left the window open again.â&#x20AC;&#x2122; Behind that large door was her favourite place in the world. She had been up there countless times, every time she could evade Uncle Oswald and Anne-Marie in fact. Twenty minutes were all she needed to make her happy. The girl had secretly laughed many times while Uncle had corrected her time after time with patience, and she always remembered to put on a sorry and sad face for the rest of the day. That both convinced and satisfied him at first. Then, when she got caught the sixth time she realised that day-long sorry faces were not going to be enough to do either the convincing or the satisfying. However she had put on a genuinely sad face for more than a day after Uncle Oswald had personally removed the key to the door from the last windowsill at the top of the staircase. That key had rested in that chink in the wall for the better part of forty years, but for a whole week it had been secreted away to some darker place. The girl had gone up the tiring staircase twice daily in the hope that it had magically reappeared. And one day it did, but the girl also knew that it could vanish again for a much longer time if she was ever caught by Uncle behind that door again . She was always very careful after that. Ten minutes in that room were hardly enough, but Uncle had not looked at her in any sort of purposeful way during dinner that week. She could always tell when he did that. Fifteen minutes were better, but she still thought she could stretch it a bit longer. So one day the young girl had braved it again, and the fifteen minutes had stretched to twenty. But she had not dared tempt her luck further, so she finally settled for those twenty minutes, her twenty, and quite enough time to watch the sun set. Because it was the horizon that made that door and the window locked behind it so important to the girl. The West Tower had the best and most enchanting view in the whole wide universe. For that horizon she would face any number of Uncle Oswalds and Anne-Maries, she would come up with the most complex excuses to get away, and she would run up the stairs no matter how short of breath she felt. And every time she was up here she remembered the first time she fell in love with that view. It had been the break of summer then, some fourteen months ago

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when Uncle Oswald had welcomed her home. The first night Anne-Marie had helped her unpack her bags and settle in her room, though to her it felt more like a hall than anything else. She had been even more surprised when she saw Uncle’s the next morning, which was even bigger. The whole second day had been very astonishing for her, as she was whisked from place to place by her new host, all the time wondering how many people could fit in such a house while she almost ran to keep up. That evening she had been forced to endure her tired legs trudging up the West Tower’s spiral staircase. She often remembered the crucial moment, how as soon as she reached that last step she had leant breathlessly against the wall near the wooden door while the key was being turned in its lock, how she had raised her eyes as soon as the door was opened, expecting to see a dark and boring hole-in-the-wall room, and how she had been dumbstruck. The room was bright orange and bloody red and bathed in summer light. She forgot her legs and walked in after Uncle, advancing hypnotised towards the window. The low westering sun stared back at her, both of them wide-eyed and motionless. Were it not for her guardian, who merely wanted to acquaint the girl with the castle and who was now in a hurry to descend, she would have surely remained there at least an hour. ‘Oh there’s Simon, look,’ Uncle Oswald had said, and she had seen the bird cutting across the golden orb in the distance. ‘Come on, let’s go back down now. You must be exhausted. Anne-Marie will tuck you in if you feel like sleeping early today.’ She had not felt tired at all just then. However because she was still shy, she quietly consented. But all three topmost tower rooms had been forbidden to her by Uncle Oswald, who was only thinking of the gaping drop down to the empty ditch just outside the windows, and also of the inconvenient fact that some young children didn’t seem to develop a fear of heights until they grew older. Still, she was not daunted by him, and because of that she could enjoy her secret twenty minutes every day before bedtime.

40 40 40 40 Only now her secret twenty minutes had become their secret twenty. And he was still running up, up the stairs to the tower door. And she was crouching closer to the wall, as ready as a hunting hawk.

Clayton Hili

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Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans

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With just one bite, my taste buds are taken on a deliciously dangerous rollercoaster ride,

ups and downs, twists and turns through the different dimensions of flavour. The crazy

ride is really a fantastic gourmet experience. A smorgasbord for all ages. Pop one in your

mouth and you will suddenly be transported back into those dreamy, balmy, summer, Saturday afternoons when as a child, you would be given your pocket money (fifty

pence! A fortune) to frivol away at the sweet shop. Smooth raspberry creams, cool pep-

permints (which would last you a good 10 minutes sucking time, if you were careful and

didn't chew hastily), buttery toffees, and a little bag of every child's dynamite — su-

perbly sweet yet sour, powdery and so delicious — sherbet.

Yes, just pop one in your mouth and those memories will come flooding back! Hearing

the bell trill as you eagerly pushed the shop's doors open, finally approaching the beauti-

ful glass canisters stuffed to the gunnels with goodies; the canisters you'd been peering at

through the windows all week long. A long week of being shouted at by Mrs White, who

waved you away from the glass windows, as you pressed your little face up against them, finally running off and leaving the little smudgy imprint of sticky, child's hands

upon her newly-polished bays.

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However delicious some of these may appear, one must be prepared for a shocker now

and again. Yes, each glossy bean has a unique flavour which may be mouth-watering…

or stomach-churning. My personal favourite has got to be the "ear wax" flavoured bean. Ten points for originality indeed. This one tastes sticky and bitter, bringing back some

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not so pleasant childhood memories of being forced to eat a ball of wax by an older sib-

44 44 44 44 44 44 ling. The sheer horror upon one's face as they realise they've been "BeanBoozled" (a terrific catchphrase developed by Mrs Bertie Bott herself) and are biting into skunk

spray flavoured bean instead of the (deceptively similar looking) delicately flavoured

liquorice bean, is priceless. If anyone has come across "pencil-shaving" flavour, kindly

let me know. I'm sure it's an acquired taste. Then again, all the most exciting gourmet

delights usually are. Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Jelly Beans are no exception. Buy a

packet today to relive childhood memories (good and bad), or to create new ones. 44 44 44 44 44 44 44 44 44 44 44 44 44 44 44 44 44

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Bartleby review

45 The main strength of this novella, as with the rest of Melville's later works, is its 45

ambivalence and non-commitment to one interpretation. Having ditched the

authorial narrative style in mid-career, Melville leaves the text wide open for

speculation.

45 The narrator of the story, a notary-like lawyer executing legal business in his 45

offices on Wall Street, offers an exposition of the plot by describing his own

work and his dependants’ quirks of character. He is very much a man of the

world, admitting to a lack of ambition in his career, preferring to ‘do a snug

business among rich men’s bonds’ than to ‘address[…] a jury or in any way draw[…] down public applause’. He prefigures the model citizen of Huxley’s

Brave New World, always following the line of least resistance, choosing comfort

over fulfilment. His employees present a more comic appearance. Turkey and

Nippers are scriveners, or copyists, who are far from being models of industry.

Their efficiency at work follows a regular pattern: Turkey is a useful employee till the noon break, when he invariably gets tipsy, after which he is worse than

useless. On the other hand, Nippers suffers a chronic dyspepsia and is always

fiddling about moving his table and chair, complaining of backache or an ache

in the arms or any other sort of ache whatever position he tries to write in,

through the whole morning, only settling himself down, dyspepsia-free, in the afternoon hours. The only other employee is the unremarkable Ginger, the of-

fice’s errand boy.

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One day, a ‘pallidly neat, pitiably respectable, incurably forlorn’ individual, the

eponymous hero of the novella’s title, turns up in answer to an advertised va-

cancy and starts work in the office. At first he is extremely industrious, to the point of being machine-like. The boss quickly becomes baffled, however, when

Bartleby starts refusing to proofread any document he is asked to or to perform

the simplest of errands, succumbing, eventually, to total inactivity. His reply to

46 46 46 46 all requests is invariably ‘I would prefer not to’. One day he is even discovered to be lodging clandestinely in the offices. In other words, things just get zanier still.

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Bartleby can be seen as the archetypal passive resister. In his very passiveness he

manages to disrupt and fluster the society around him, exposing the liberal humanist ideology we live in to be neither truly liberal nor humane. Note that he

‘prefer[s] not to’ do what is asked of him; though persistent, he never replies in a

direct negative; his choice of words cunningly exploits the liberalist assumption

that the people of the so-called Free World are given a choice, or preference, in

everything they do. Of course, Bartleby's insistence on following his own preferences of non-activity and of not participating in the great machine around him

inevitably make him perish in a satiric and self-sacrificial perversion of the lib-

eralist doctrine of self-determination.

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In the events that transpire, Bartleby nonetheless succeeds in being the most liberated of the characters; he transcends the society he would “prefer not to” be an

active part of even through his death and in many ways achieves much more

than can be expected from a Turkey and a Nippers in a lifetime.

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Turkey A general air of dejection, dirt and acute diarrhoea commonly tend to pop into many peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s minds at the mere mention of Turkey. Interestingly enough, however, when asked, most of them would admit to never having set foot on this extraordinarily enigmatic country.

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On telling friends and family the decision of wanting to go to Turkey for my first ever holiday abroad alone with my boyfriend, the collective reaction was that of a confused consternation. A plethora of countries were pointed out to me, notably Italy and England, as being what is considered to be the â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;proper places to visitâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;, for an ordinary, secure vacation. Needless to say, this only served to strengthen my resolve to find out for myself what the aversion to such a richly cultured country was all about and most importantly, if it was justified. Far from finding a country with a paucity of resources, I stumbled upon a real treasure trove, where the past mingled with the present in a compelling mixture. We started our adventure in one of the most magnificent cities that I have ever come across: Istanbul. Spanning over the two continents of Europe and Asia and dominating both the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus, Istanbul, once Constantinople, held us captive under its spell of outlandish contrasts. While strolling through the living historical museum of Sultanahmet, full of architectural and artistic works bearing the traces of the Roman, Byzantine and Ottoman Empires, we were faced with a complete merging of traditions. You are most likely to come across Muslim women wearing a draping overcoat and headscarf sipping Turkish tea and nibbling at some baklava (a dough-based syrupy dessert made out of layers of filo pastry containing chopped pistachio nuts and honey) together with friends who are, on the other hand, tastefully garbed in the latest European attires.

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Designed to surpass every other building in splendour and grandeur to express their devotion to the glory of God, the Mosques in Istanbul are more than just architectural gems. Once inside the Rustem Pasa or Blue Mosque I found myself hypnotised by the dedicated rhythmic praying of the worshippers who, completely unperturbed by the throng of tourists ogling at them, gather to offer their salat prayers five times daily.

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At the Kapali Carsi, the immense Covered Bazaar, we found ourselves in great danger of being immersed in the vast amounts of jewellery, antiques, carpets, silver and copper souvenirs, leather and suede clothes, and carvings etched in mother-of-pearl. This is where I discovered that I am in possession of the handy talent of haggling; a true art which came in very useful in this labyrinth of streets home to more than 4,000 shops. Istanbul may be Turkeyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s crown jewel, but that doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t mean that the country isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t littered with virtually undiscovered pearls of natural beauty. This is one of the reasons why we decided to venture to the south-west of Turkey into a Denizli province called Pamukkale, the literal translation of which is Cotton Castle. The name could not have been more apt since we were met with what looked like breathtaking mountains coated entirely in the whitest of snow. The snow however, proved to be thick, white layers of limestone caused by underground volcanic activity and carved erratically into shelves and ridges. Whilst soaking in the natural calcium pools of warm spring water which form part of this geological singularity, I wondered what other rarities this small village could have to offer. As if on cue, the ruins of the Roman Hierapolis greeted us on the plateau of the chalky travertine, of which the well-preserved theatre with its beautifully decorated motifs and the extensive necropolis will undoubtedly remain etched in my memory as one of the most untarnished historical sites that I have yet had the opportunity to visit.

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Laughter in the dark: The Joker and Batman

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The division between Batman and the Joker could not be more clear-cut. Batman is the Dark Knight of Gotham, the city’s avenging angel with darkness as his natural habitat. Joker is a minister of malevolent mirth, the Clown Prince of crime — a cackling jolt of insanity to Batman’s brooding, super-detective-deductive-reasoning self. While still remaining on the surface of things, it is also easy to note further distinguishing features. Batman juggles two identities and is fuelled by a past he can never lay to rest; Joker does not even have a name1 and exists entirely in the present - his madness, even when it does have method, is improvised and arbitrary to terrifying effect. This framework provides a modus operandi to Batman stories featuring the Joker, ever since the villain’s first appearance in Batman #1, published in 1940.2 One-shots, as a subgenre, open a window onto the subject because they are allowed to flesh out and crystallise fundamental aspects of both characters; aspects that would otherwise have been washed away by the utilitarian needs of serial continuity. Creators undertaking one-shots are free to expand upon and address even the possible psychological and philosophical ramifications of this long-lasting rivalry. The same holds true for cinematic adaptations, and the disparities between Tim Burton’s Batman (1989) and Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight (2008) are interesting in this respect. Does digging deeper reap interesting interpretations? Or is it simply an excuse to indulge in embarrassing pseudo-intellectualism? Alan Moore and Brian Bolland’s The Killing Joke is a case in point. This slim volume is considered to be seminal treatment of the Batman-Joker relationship and is now looked at as yet another example of how Moore helped revolutionise the world of superhero comic books; a reputation he had cemented with the publication of Watchmen in 1986. Moore takes the dichotomy outlined above and sets up a playground for it to simmer. The basic plotline to this 48-page comic is actually a very simple one. Joker escapes Arkham Asylum yet again, and the book opens with Batman attempting to extort information on his whereabouts from a decoy Joker places in his cell. But before Batman realizes he is actually addressing a decoy, he voices the concerns that lie at the core of the story:

50 50 50 I’ve been thinking lately. About you and me. About what’s going to happen to us, in the end. We’re going to kill each other, aren’t we? Perhaps you’ll kill me, perhaps I’ll kill you. Perhaps sooner. Perhaps later […] I don’t understand why ours should be such a fatal relationship. I don’t want your murder on my hands.3

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This kind of statement illustrates what I had said on one — shots above. It is an encapsulating, mythical generalisation of their relationship, the kind that is possible to execute only within the one-shot genre. The creators are allowed to pause from the barrage of story arcs and make room for some meditation - to take stock, as it were - on the characters and their predicament. Later, in the Batcave, Bruce Wayne expresses a related sentiment to Alfred:

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I don’t know him, Alfred. All these years and I don’t know who he is any more than he knows who I am. How can two people hate so much without knowing each other?4

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Again, a reflection such as this one can only ever be couched within a one-shot. No reader would expect their hero to know his or her corresponding arch-villain in this sense of knowing: of having had a heart-to-heart (or dissection) at some point to discover the recesses of their psyche, what makes them tick and why. Now however, this kind of knowledge becomes the central preoccupation of the narrative. What this statement also brings to one’s attention is the unquestionable inseparability of Batman and Joker. Theirs is a star-crossed hatred, as it has no rational basis for existing5. The anonymity of both characters is also pointed out here. What Wayne is basically expressing is that Batman and Joker are locked into their respective signifiers, the airtight roles of superhero and super villain. For this reason, they are impenetrable to each other; all they can do is fight over and over again, without ever being graced with any growth, self-knowledge or progression. This is the predicament of most superheroes and super villains in comic books and Moore moulds it into an existential tragedy. This in itself is questionable. Moore shows that there is nothing to ‘get’ about Batman and Joker, while at the same time building an entire story on how we should interpret their relationship; he pitches it as ineffable and cosmic, only to bog it down into mealy-mouthed psychologising in the ensuing confrontation.

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Soon after his escape, Joker cripples Barbara Gordon, kidnaps Jim Gordon (her father, Gotham City’s Commissioner) and forces him to watch footage of her being tortured and, it is insinuated, raped by Joker’s cronies. The grotesque ritual takes place at a fun fair Joker has managed to ‘purchase’ and its purpose is, as Joker explicitly states, to drive Jim Gordon insane, in an attempt to prove the essential sovereignty of chaos to human nature. Joker is now given space to lecture on his worldview.

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Commissioner Gordon: Somebody please...tell me what I’m doing here... Joker: Doing? You’re doing what any sane man in your appalling circumstances would do. You’re going mad.6 This kind of playful paradox-juggling is a starting point for Moore to open a window on Joker’s psyche. As Commissioner Gordon is prodded into consciousness by one of Joker’s circus-midgets, he recalls the situation that brought him there: Joker: Remember? Ohh, I wouldn’t do that! Remembering’s [sic] dangerous. I find the past such a worrying, anxious place. “The Past Tense,” I suppose you’d call it. Ha Ha Ha. Memory’s so treacherous […] Madness is the emergency exit...You can just step outside, and close the door on all those dreadful things that happened. You can lock them away...Forever.7 Madness is therefore pitched as a defence mechanism. Joker is effectively placed as a ‘madness guru’ here, having traversed beyond the boundaries of conventional thinking into what appears to him to be a more authentic state of consciousness. The denouncement of rationality hardly convinces because it is an adolescent argument. When the Joker ‘presents’ Commissioner Gordon as precisely the ‘everyman’ figure living under a fallacious philosophy of life, things get even more embarrassing:

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Ladies and gentlemen! You’ve read about it in the newspapers! Now, shudder as you observe, before your very eyes, that most rare and tragic of nature’s mistakes! I give you...the average man! Physically unremarkable, it has instead a deformed set of values. Notice the hideously bloated sense of humanity’s importance. The club-footed social conscience and the withered

52 52 52 optimism [...] Most repulsive of all, are its frail and useless notions of order and sanity. If too much weight is placed upon them...they snap.8

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Moore here is guilty of the same half-baked, angst-ridden philosophising one would attribute to an angry rock band. But what is ultimately reprehensible about this approach is that it also does away with any traditional action, drama and suspense one normally finds in a comic book story. The general lack of plot is what ultimately deflates the comic into pseudo territory. We get none of the tangible pleasures of a superhero yarn; in its place, all we are left with is some one — sided lecturing on Joker’s part that reveals very little about the character both in terms of dramatic and psychological depth. In fact, when Batman does arrive to save the day, what ensues is a relatively linear physical confrontation peppered with more of the Joker’s rambling. What is perhaps the most redeeming scene in the book occurs at the very end, after the day has been saved and all the main conflicts in the book are tied up. Batman attempts to reconcile the concerns he has at the beginning of the book by offering the Joker some proper psychological rehabilitation, which the Joker refuses on the grounds that it is ‘too late’. The situation reminds him of a joke:

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See, there were these two guys in a lunatic asylum...and one night...they decide they don’t like living in an asylum any more. They decide they’re going to escape! So like they get up on to the roof, and there, just across the narrow gap, they see the rooftops of the town, stretching away...to freedom. Now the first guy he jumps right across with no problem. But...his friend daren’t make the leap. Y’see he’s afraid of falling… So then the first guy has an idea. He says “Hey! I have my flashlight with me. I will shine it across the gap between the buildings. You can walk across the beam and join me.” But the second guy just shakes his head. He says... “What do you think I am, crazy? You would turn it off when I was half way across”.9 Recognizing the joke as an allegory of their relationship, Batman laughs at the absurdity of it all. This intimacy — taking hold of Batman as he accepts the futility implicit in any attempt to rehabilitate Joker — salvages the book somewhat. The

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ineffability of their relationship is re-established, free of any need to rationalize it by tacking on a pop-psychology angle. The circularity is reinforced by a neat visual touch — the final panel mirrors the very first one: a close up of raindrops rippling onto a puddle. Moore’s conception of the Batman-Joker dynamic, while perhaps aesthetically flawed, nevertheless opened up the iconic relationship to new possibilities. Indeed, The Killing Joke was (unofficially) employed to great effect in The Dark Knight, Christopher Nolan’s sequel to Batman Begins, the much-needed reboot of the franchise following the dismal critical failures of Joel Schumacher’s Batman Forever and Batman and Robin. Nolan’s ambition for the films’ new direction included a more realist, mature approach, which is part of the reason why Moore’s ideas for Joker’s psychology are couched nicely within this framework. There are several nods to The Killing Joke in The Dark Knight; Joker’s nihilistic embrace of chaos over order as a far more authentic worldview is a driving force throughout, as is the idea — articulated towards the end — that the two of them will be at each others’ throats forever. Joker’s anonymity is also fully embraced by Nolan, which is a refreshing counterpoint to the far more simplistic interpretation put forth by Tim Burton’s take on the character. Just as he explains in The Killing Joke that if he were to have a past, he would rather it be multiple choice, in The Dark Knight, he deliberately gives conflicting explanations of how his face was scarred.

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Ultimately, The Dark Knight is a far more satisfying experience because Nolan had the luxury to plunder Moore’s material as part of the larger tapestry of his big-budget opus. Bolstered by Heath Ledger’s Oscar-winning performance, the film is enriched by The Killing Joke’s unique approach to what is ostensibly pulp fiction material. The Killing Joke’s journey from the comics to the cinema is a journey from the pulp to the middlebrow. Moore attempted to improve upon the cheesy pre-80s Joker by adding depth and psychological nuance, while Nolan integrated it into a story that would reach an audience beyond the essentially niche crowd of comic book aficionados. What this shows, more than anything else, is the durability of the duo’s archetypal rivalry. In positing that they’ll be always be locked in a struggle, The Joker may have been right in more ways than one.

54 54 54 Bibliography 1. Moore and Bolland, Batman: The Killing Joke (New York: DC Comics, 1988) 2. The Greatest Joker Stories Ever Told (New York: DC Comics, 1997)

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List of films cited 1. The Dark Knight. Dir. Christopher Nolan. Warner Bros. 2008. 2. Batman. Dir. Tim Burton. Warner Bros. 1989. 3. Batman Forever. Dir. Joel Schumacher. Warner Bros. 1995. 4. Batman and Robin. Dir. Joel Schumacher. Warner Bros. 1997.

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Illustration Index:

Front Cover - photo by Sarah Micallef Pg 11 - photo by Nigel Baldacchino Pg 19 - photo by Maria Muscat Pg 20 - illustration by Christine Tong Pg 21-2 - photos & illustration by Adrian Abela Pg 23 - photo by Nigel Baldacchino Pg 25 - photo by Adrian Abela Pg 26 - illustration by Rachel Galea Pg 27-8 - illustration by Adrian Abela Pg 33 - photo by Carla Said Pg 40 - photo by Nigel Baldacchino Pg 44 - photo by Nigel Baldacchino Pg 46 - Unknown, provided by Maria Muscat Pg 54 â&#x20AC;&#x201D; illustration by Rachel Galea Pg 56 - photo by Nigel Baldacchino

Acknowledgements: Editors: Andrew Galea James Borg Heads of Section: Reuben Zammit Christine Tong Neville Bezzina Creative Team: Maria Muscat Sarah Micallef Rachel Galea Carla Said

Proofreaders: Clayton Hili Rachelle Gauci Mark Anthony Fenech Special Thanks go to: The Department of English Prof. Ivan Callus Dr James Corby Dr Maria Frendo Elizabeth Galea Karl Galea