‘The smell of earth after it’s just finished raining’
In A Station of the Metro - Ezra Pound
The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough
Ezra Pound’s poem “In A Station of the Metro” lies parallel the contrasting images of urban life and the natural world whilst simultaneously exposing the spontaneous nature of one ’ s perceptions. With the poem comprising only twenty words including the title, Pound is able to effectively convey a fleeting instant; a sudden shift in the speaker’s observation of faces within the metro to the imagination of petals on a branch The brief form of the poem in addition to the absence of verbs contributes to the spontaneity of the speaker’s insight. Hence, allowing readers to view the opposing images, one in the speaker’s mind and the other in their mind, infinitely in oscillation. As such, Pound establishes a link between one ’ s sight and imagination in order to express how these two senses shape one ’ s perception of the world around them.
Furthermore, Pound juxtaposes the realms of the urban and natural world by placing the two in close proximity. The ghostly, blurred appearance of the “apparition” of so many people within a crowd is effectively so dull and homogenous that the speaker’s brain becomes distracted, instead turning to petals. The calming, serene imagery of the latter is elevated as a welcome change from the noisy, packed metro station Consequently, Pound promulgates the notion that nature is worth prioritising in a world increasingly overwhelmed by technology. Contrastingly, it can simultaneously be noted that the poem may be conveying quite the opposite notion, instead depicting human beings as simply an extension of the natural world. Despite the seemingly jarring nature of the metro station and the branch, the two images essentially coexist. The assonance shared by “crowds” and “bough” establishes this link in which the various metro stations in the urban world are likened to the boughs making up a tree. Similarly, the transient, ever moving nature of humans being transported throughout the city is much like the petals that continually fall and the water that continually runs through the tree. This is further established through the interwoven nature of the two adjectives “wet” and “black” which can both describe the bough whilst also illustrate the dark train tracks on a wet day. Ultimately, neither image is static but rather each conveys a fleeting, untouchable existence Whatever faces are noted passing by in the metro are quickly replaced, a dampened branch that will dry by morning, still, as the petals eventually fall with the wind. As such, Pound promulgates the fleeting nature of one ’ s observations or even the transitory, cyclic nature of life itself, possibly as a means of urging readers to appreciate the moments and people around them while it lasts. By
Elon Musk wouldn’t pass Year 11 Lit (in my opinion)
In Year 11 English Literature, students study ‘Frankenstein’ by Mary Shelley as one of their novels I’m not apart of a Year 11 Lit class, but I have read and do love ‘Frankenstein or; The Modern Prometheus’. Among other things, Frankenstein is a seminal science-fiction text, the story of a scientist tormented by his creation, who just like Prometheus, had unleashed something on the world of which they were not capable of controlling.
Since the publication of Frankenstein (1818), Science Fiction has experienced a great many shifts, from its beginnings by Shelley, to the fantastical, paid-by-the word nonsense popularised post World War 2, to cyber-punk dystopias and silver-screen blockbusters. We’ve seen Darth Vader represent the Asthmatic community, Tina Turner in chainmail, Sarah Connor do chin-ups and Austin Butler’s portrayal of a white bald baby in Dune Part 2. Science Fiction is awesome. I’m a great lover of Science Fiction. From H.G. Wells to George Lucas, sign me up. Whenever I see Luke Skywalker use the force and blow up the Death Star, I feel like standing up and cheering, no matter how many times I’ve seen him do it before.
Another self-proclaimed fan of Science Fiction is Elon Musk. Early this year, Neuralink, one of Elon Musk’s companies, performed the first ever implant of a BCI (Brain-Computer Interface). Essentially, it’s an electronic implant in the brain that links it directly to a computer. Neuralink, launched in 2016, was one of a slew of other Silicon Valley companies competing to create a BCI, and, eight years after its inception, its won
The first chip was implanted into a quadriplegic patient, a young man suffering from injuries to his spinal cord, and just hours after the operation he could play chess and video games on his computer using nothing but his mind, by simply focusing his thoughts on the screen. The reality of its power and potential is both creepy and mindboggling.
Musk named the implant ‘Telepathy’. We often think of Musk as an Ideas Man. His grand plans of computers in brains, colonising Mars and naming children after serial numbers on his rockets (Here’s to you X Æ A-Xii) are just that; grand. They’re also not his.
Musk is much like AI programs, such as ChatGPT. He can’t come up with original ideas, and he’s stuck regurgitating what he’s read, thrusting fictional blueprints upon his scientists and demanding reality. Musk has long been inspired by works of Science Fiction for his projects, stating that he gets some of his ideas from the works of Isaac Asimov and Douglas Adams. And that’s fine. I’d love a Babel-Fish from Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy or a fully functioning Ironman suit. But the thing is, Elon Musk has entirely missed the point of science fiction.
Science Fiction is a powerful vehicle to shed light on the path of humankind. As much as science fiction is about robots, aliens, and outer space, it’s fundamentally about humans. Science Fiction holds a mirror up to humanity, and even though it adds tentacles, antennae and giant bug eyes, Science Fiction is used to reflect ourselves. Much like Frankenstein, which warns of the dangers of technology and science, of our arrogance and obsession to play with fire and be surprised when we are burned.
Though Science-Fiction has, throughout its history, been considered a niche, pulp-fiction type genre. A genre concerned with the bizarre, esoteric, nerdy and fantastical, the warnings it contains are hardly new. Think of Icarus disregarding his father’s warnings and flying too close to the sun. Our modern vehicles of choice for packaging our cautions and anxieties are dystopias and lightsabres The only difference is that the Ancient Greeks preferred hot young men.
Science Fiction is one of our strongest defences against ourselves. It’s a shame that Elon Musk has no idea that this is the case.
Elon Musk probably thought Frankenstein was godlike in creating the monster. Elon Musk probably thinks the telescreens in 1984 are a fabulous idea, and I’d wager he thinks that Oppenheimer was a persecuted hero It is one thing to create the fantastical technology from our favourite books. It is another entirely, to not just disregard the warnings and teachings of these texts, but to not register them at all. Elon Musk is dangerous because he has the unfortunate inability to see past the scenery of science fiction He is truly the sci-fi villain of our times We need science. This is true. The world is a better place because of, among other things, vaccines, penicillin, electricity, chemotherapy and flushing toilets.
But humanity needs more than just science. Without kindness and consideration, without philosophy and morality, without history, and without reading the writing on the wall, science morphs from a silver bullet into a nuclear bomb And it’s men like Elon Musk who’ll be the ones to shoot us in the foot.
By Alex Duncan
The Rocks
As I look down to my dangling legs
Then look up to the jutting rock
Its angularity
Its drama
I feel small
I like
Feeling small
I think, as I run my hands through
Salt-crusted eyebrows
Skin licked By sun Brushed With sand
Everything
Is in glorious motion around me
Sail boats carve water
Fish dip and dive
A clam scuttles in sand
I see everything
From here -
By Isabella Hunt
The Curtain Rule
That old grocer you didn’t hate finally went out of business. I don’t know when, all I know is that it’s now a dental clinic, twenty shades too clean of grime for something that should’ve been standing there. It was the last shop to stay unchanging on that lane, amongst the instalments of bright shops coming and going with the seasons. I remember the way you used to take me to each new one that appeared, pressing up against the windows and looking at the plush interior, aglow with warm light and enchanted by the smell of delicious food.
The fact is that I hated this place. And I know you didn’t hate it, because whenever the woman called our mother got into her moods you’d always run to there Perks of living in a dead district means that nobody uses the facilities that the government’s forced to keep clean. I always wondered what you did when you ran off alone: you only took me sometimes out of obligation. Or maybe I’m putting words in your mouth, because I’m still a coward.
If you were here, you’d yell at me to give it to you straight. If you were younger, then you’d sit me down, take a deep breath, and get me to enunciate my words clearly. Maximum information density, you’d laugh, pinching my cheeks. Your method was all honesty and reduction, cleaving flesh down to its bare bones and making something of it, consequences be damned But you gave up on patience earlier than me, and all I know is how to spin tautologies into something that looks sweet enough to eat
I hated you for the longest time. When I was seven I’d sit alone at school because of you, because rumours travel fast when someone of importance (an older, more grown-up girl) says them, and faster when they’re deliciously nasty ones A year later I’d learnt to endure it until I got home and curled up in the space beneath my clothes in our closet and peel crescents from my fingernails until they bled. When you left for highschool I thought I would be granted some reprieve, but the fights only got worse as you learnt how to sharpen your tongue.
Do you remember the fight about the curtains? I had gotten off from my parttime job, I remember, and trudged back to the apartment building hungry and scared, because it was 8pm on a winter night and I was a fifteen-year old girl alone with only my phone’s flashlight guiding my way. The apartment was empty, because mother was out again, and from the pavement outside I could see that the curtains weren’t closed.
Mother never cared but it was always an agreement between us to keep the curtains closed after sunset. We always had the lights on after dark, but if we didn’t close the curtains then everyone outside could peek right into our room, since the entire wall of the living-room was a window and because our room was on the first level. It was always your job to draw the curtains in the living-room on weekdays, and my job on weekends – a routine we treated with reverence as if we were warding off evil But that night I could see right into our flat– lit by a lone light, unfolded laundry spilled onto the floor and wrappers strewn on the floor, visible for anyone and everyone to see. Later, you told me that you’d fought with Mother earlier in the day, as you held me and as we hugged in reconciliation. But I didn’t know then, so I slammed your door open and when I caught sight of you, on your laptop, lying in bed, we fought with the anger over a thousand inconsequential things. It was our first large fight, but not the largest.
I hated you so much. I’ve said this already. Hate is a strong word but the two of us only ever felt in extremes, the only thing we had in common. Whereas you spat it directly to anyone willing or unwilling to listen, I struggled to come to terms with the fact that we were anything alike, much less related. You embodied the type of person I despised - lazy and arrogant and selfish. I’d wake up early in the mornings and you’d never wake until noon: I’d enter your room and stare at the months-old cups of yoghurt growing entire kingdoms in your room. You took a gap year because you were failing Finance, a major you chose half-heartedly, and then you did nothing except drink, party, and sleep. I looked on with disdain and distanced myself from you
Mother used to slur on about how when she died you’d be the only one left to take care of me, when she staggered home in the early hours of the morning. It wasn’t a reassurance for me. As soon as I had my finances in order I left home and never looked back, because all I knew was to march forward and get myself out of there. I moved in with a room-mate, and closed the curtains on my own; I pushed into university, and you didn’t come when I graduated, because we fought a week before About what, I can’t remember – only the glaring absence of anyone to congratulate me.
The last time I saw your face – was it over a decade ago, now? At Mother’s funeral. You invited me after to go and get fish and chips at this new place that opened. I remember that day with stunning clarity – the gentle sun overhead warmed my skin, and the gulls feasted on the table behind us. Our table was flimsy so we almost dropped our food. I talked about my work, and you about yours, and then you said you were getting better, to which I smiled at. We pointedly never mentioned Mother. The conversation was a minefield of broken glass and I traversed it carefully, until I stepped on one. Then you said a lot of things, and not all of it reached my ears.
I carved a rictus on your face with every word I spoke that day, dragging a knife of sorrows across your face, so lovely dappled by the sun and the leaves. Your frozen grin coiled up into a sneer. I got up – passersby were staring because of the commotion – and that was the last we ever saw of each other.
It’s been a decade Nowadays I can hardly slip out of bed – I lie awake staring at my bedroom’s ogee cornices. Progress is the movement of my body from one room to another in the mornings, and doing anything productive after work when I get home is a Herculean task. Nowadays I wonder if this is how you felt
When we were young we measured time through height-lines on our bedroom wall we’d mark for each other, but now I’m well past the middle of my life. People my age are supposed to have acquired a wealth of wisdom by now and be someone mature and responsible to look up to I thought it was something begotten by adulthood, that I’d know everything I need to do once I became twenty, then thirty, but I’m still waiting. I go to work, and I go home, and I am still scared and want my sister.
I had ten years to say this to you. I’m sorry for taking so long. I hated you so much because you made it harder to hate you. You packed me my school-lunches and took care of me more than any sister would in the absence of Mother, you reconciled our fights; you’d cut into my skin with those words of yours then spend your money on a lavish dinner as an apology. We fought because we were children and you were tired from a responsibility most older siblings don’t need to carry. I wanted blackand-white so I could hate you purely, but I could not, and that only inflamed me further. I wanted to be right. I was prideful and arrogant and selfish
For all our differences it wasn’t our flesh and blood that we shared that kept us together, it was the fact that it was us against the open world, to take care of each other. But I was tired of these fights and I was a coward, so I ran and left you behind I love you I’m sorry I never got to apologise after our last fight, and now I’ll never get to apologise.
I disliked the idea of an Eternity because I wanted a clear and cut end after life, but for you I’ll believe in all of heaven or hell if it means I can meet you again, if I could say sorry, if it means you’ll hug me again I’m sorry. I miss you. I love you.
By Alice Choi
People often ask me, profoundly, very earnestly, with wide eyes and bated breath, “how do you write like that?”
I look at them and say, “I was born on Mars,” (it seems rather unfair to say anything else) “Their English is very good there, don’t you know?”
Still, they probe. So I say, “I got lucky with my muse. In the dim light of the rising sun, when the world is still stirring under that shroud of mist and there is nothing but the hum of a fluorescent washing-machine, prose comes flying over the blazing fields of amber-green and I reach out to catch it; sometimes I succeed, sometimes all I feel of beauty is its stinging brush against my fingertips ”
No, no, they say, there is no such thing as luck in this world; it is full of knives and storms do you think me so gullible? look, can’t you see? The sky is purple with rage
“Sorry,” I say, “ you ’ re right; but you know how terribly personal a creative process can be The truth is, I bring out my amethyst crystal and charge it under the full moon every Tuesday Then I eat it for breakfast. I invoke the genius living in my walls with little stone altars and sacrificial ants. I listen for prophecy on the radio. Sometimes, in dreams, I visit the house I used to live in. My grandmother is in the rocking-chair and she turns, grinning, grotesque, and I have to look away I observe the dolls in the dollhouse; but they rarely do anything interesting I fly to Milan, I obliterate and extend into the infinite universe, I make myself and my shadow twin tea in the evening Eros, Mariage Freres and we stare deeply and profoundly into the swirling, scintillating samovar. I read my fortune in the morning paper and cry. I smoke a cigarette, I refuse the earthly sphere, I have bacchanals up in the country house whenever my mother’s out of town You know how it is ”
There is a still and silent moment of reckoning We both sit, astonished, either end of the telephone wire. I feel awfully exposed. I’m wearing nothing but gossamer.
Yet, they never believe me I don’t know what else to say
By Xuan Valmorbida
The Joys Of Life
The smell of fresh crusty bread
In the early morning, a sky so red.
The cool breeze of the winter trees, The soothing feeling of evening ease.
Picnics with my family every weekend, The hours in cool air we spend.
The laughs and smiles with friends, This constant joy that never ends.
The beauty of the tall tree tops, The mountains, valleys and the crops Nature’s beauty a simple blessing, Yet the thing that leaves the world ...obsessing.
Smiles, Goofy, crooked, wide. What matters is the feeling inside!
So when you ’ re in strife you must remember, the joys of life from last November.
By Alexia Chatfield
The Lamb and the Crow
This week is the hottest yet. The flies travel in packs and the ground is dense, too hard, under my feet. I try not to think about it too much. I try not to think about anything too much but it haunts me. The heat. I feel it creeping around every corner, licking up all the water in thick, greedy strokes. The flies know it, they relish in it, lying carefree on our bodies like cancerous freckles sucking the life out of a land, already dead
This Autumn, the farm is becoming wider, and redder and hotter. Desperately seeking some kind of relief against the splintering heat, Sienna and I usually go out to the dam to swim. This week we don’t. Instead, we lie silent in our underwear under the fan in her room, listening to its methodical tick as it makes each rotation. At 12pm, we make toasties with wholegrain bread and tomato for Mum and Dad. They’re uncomfortably warm against the pulsing sun but all we know how to make. We put them on colourful plastic plates and bring them out into the sheep yards. There my parents stand. Amidst flocks of thin livestock, their eyes are hooded with exhaustion, their arms and legs tanned red by the dust which rests on their bodies like a thick sunscreen. Mum smiles at us and as she does all her wrinkles splay out evenly across her face, a new youth remoulding her
Having given up on the fan and any attempts at cooking by the early afternoon, Sienna and I trek limply toward the dam. On our way we pass their toasties, which lay abandoned, buried by a thick layer of ants on the fence post. Sienna cringes and I try to smile. The dam is about a hundred meters from the house, maybe less, so as we walk Sienna and I kick loose rocks to one another, watching the dust dance around our ankles It’s almost empty when we reach it, shrivelled aside from the pool of water which sits humble and steaming in its centre. Last year, Sienna and I had come here to play. We’d spent hours down by the murky water, playing battleships in our blue and red canoes and collecting frogspawn in old icecream containers. Yet now, crouching down, Sienna walks toward it with a palpable unfamiliarity She no longer dives in but rather in a quick graceless movement plomps herself down into the shallow water. It’s no longer swimmable, the dam. Even the pontoon lays vulnerable and exposed in the sweltering March heat. Agreeing with me, the eucalyptus trees nod their heads in the wind, drooping toward the dams core, in search of a water long gone. Their leaves are wrinkled and bleached and the wind pushes them head first into the tepid mud.
There, Sienna and I sit. Silent, in the mud. The humming of the frogs, the smell of salt and death and the almost silent crunch of the mud as it crinkles and breaks, rendering any awkwardness away. We watch. Watch as the trees sway obediently to the wind’s silent melody. Wind the reeds block. Barley. We watch as a blow fly withers and trembles in the mud’s web, trying erratically to free itself. I sit in the dam with Sienna, and I listen to her week, her worries, the breeze, my stomach, my voice, and the humming. I sit in the dam with my sister, and I want to hold her hand, but I’m not sure, after all this time, how to ask. I wonder where her mind is. I wonder whether it’s right there with me.
In the water.
Sticky with sweat and mud, Sienna and I walk back to the house. It doesn’t take long until we find the source of the smell. A lamb, maybe three months old, lays heaped, long dead next to a paddock fence. It too, has been taken over by the heat. Its ribs are pierced open and crows duck from the shade to take turns picking at its eyes. Once painted yellow by a thick layer of sleep, they are now hollow, plucked out by droughts withered, deadly hand.
Mum calls me and the rest of the girls out into the garden before dinner. Once lush its lost its colour, now plagued by a dullness which has begun creeping toward Mum’s roses In the garden my mother, drugged by loss and heat, dances under the glow of the sun, her movements are slow, and her eyes are closed. She calls it the rain dance, and so we all join, the orange light penetrating our eyelids as we move lucidly to the hum of the garden. We call out to Zeus, first in desperate whispers, then in erratic screams. Rain. Rain. Rain. We sing it like it like a mantra, a prayer, our teeth shining up toward the fading sun. Though, our joy is short lived, and that night, I watch her, once benevolent and lovely, cry; thick streams of tears running hot and wet down her face. Right there in the garden, where we had danced, the cicadas wail for my mother and our house, suddenly, is taken over by a heavy sadness.
When she picks us up from school the next day, Mum’s eyes are swollen and she smells of sheep feed and cereal. Her and dad have been arguing, Angus, tells me, and I can’t help but think of the lamb and crow. The animals are turning on each other, I say and Angus nods. I can hear Mum and Dad argue through my bedroom door after dinner. My mother cries and I hear Sienna creep out the back door, past our cast iron gate and into the garden. Submerged in darkness I sit down next to her. I am eleven but I must be strong for Sienna, and for Mum and Dad, and Angus and Tessa, and the sheep in the paddock. I must be strong. But as I sit there in the dirt, my knees digging deep into the ground like a prayer, I look up into the eyes of the dark sky and the fan doesn’t tick, and the cicadas stop their wailing, my parents are silent now, the whole garden is, the world is. So, I sit there in the dirt with my sister and I hold her hand.
By Emelia Koop
By Lucy Fary
Deal or No Deal?
Deadlines near. Its nipping at my heels. Soon it’ll be in the rear, So why the big deal.
They keep counting down. And I can’t help the dismay, Because I feel like such a clown. Why am I such a cliché.
I see them watching, Even if I can’t guarantee. But I can’t keep dodging, So, I worry about the debris
I stop the quivering, As I end up in the sky.
The only time I’m not withering Because next up isn’t goodbye.
Mother’s almost here. I think it’ll be okay. Even if it’s just for now before she disappears. I think I’ll be okay.
Deadlines near. I’m ready for the big reveal. I’ll welcome the tears, Even if it’s not ideal.
By Sofia Brew
Mrs Sibley’s Autumn Reading Recommendations
GRADES 5&6 (Ages 10+)
Small Spaces by Katherine Arden
"Best get moving. At nightfall they'll come for the rest of you."
As far as I’m concerned, autumn is spooky season. Even though October and Halloween falling in spring in the southern hemisphere, I simply take this as the chance to celebrate my favourite holiday TWICE. It’s all about vibes, and Small Spaces, the first in a fabulous series by Katherine Arden is full of pumpkins, falling leaves, ghost stories, friendship and foes... as well as a few (scary) scarecrows. Set in an unnamed town in charming modern-day Vermont, we join 11 year old Ollie who, being the right kind of bookworm, saves a mysterious looking book from being thrown in the local river. Upon retrieving the book, she uncovers a chilling story about a long-ago romance (two brothers, one lady – you know the drill) and a dangerous deal made with the ‘smiling man ’ . Enthralled by their story and grappling with her own personal grief, Ollie soon comes across the lovers’ graves when on her school field trip the next day The school bus breaks down, just as the students are trying to make their way back to town by nightfall, right in front of a spooky forest bordered by a field of scarecrows.
I love spooky books and even though this is written for readers far younger than me, this book still gave me chills The atmosphere is palpable an Arden explores with great delicacy and care what it means to lose a loved one and how love can ultimately help us overcome some of our greatest fears.
Grades 7&8 (Ages 12+)
The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien
“There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something. You certainly usually find something, if you look, but it is not always quite the something you were after.”
I just love it when Dr Meath compares herself to a hobbit That’s because every time she does I feel validated and seen – I feel like a hobbit, all the time. I like to be left alone at home to introvert (yes, I use it as a verb) to be quiet, read books, ponder things, cook and eat food and attempt to finish that never-ending crochet project. I don’t need to march along for days, get dirty or sleep on hard or prickly surfaces, eat camping rations or worry about being captured by mountain trolls or in turn, try to reclaim the dwarves home and treasure against a fire breathing dragon But gosh do I LOVE to read about it.
Many of you will be at least somewhat familiar with this classic of children’s literature. Perhaps you ’ ve seen the films or your parents are fans and have tried to encourage you to read it. And they have a point. Books become classics for a reason, and there is nothing like a tale of adventure to both entertain as well as teach. J.R.R Tolkien is probably best remembered for the immense contribution he made to the genre of fantasy, (the man created an entire language) but in addition to that, this tale is underpinned by the importance of friendship, self-discovery and stepping outside of one ’ s comfort zone So on that, note take this as a sign; there is nothing better than the excuse to cosy up near a fire or heater with a hot chocolate and literally get lost in Bilbo’s epic adventure
GRADES 9&10 (Ages 13+)
Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier
“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.”
Iconic opening lines from an iconic work of gothic literature. I remember so vividly the time my mum described to me that infamous scene at the annual de Winter ball. I still can’t get over how perfect this book is (in my eyes at least). Rebecca is radiant, charming, clever and universally adored by everyone around her. But this is no her story. Or is it? Our unnamed protagonist (and narrator) meets the brooding Maxim de Winter in Monte Carlo where she is working as an unhappy, unfulfilled lady’s companion to the revolting Mrs Van Hopper Swept away by the charismatic widower, our narrator finds herself marrying the equally charismatic yet emotionally closed-o Englishman and being whisked back to his family estate of Manderley on the coast of Cornwall. Rebecca is always compared to the other great gothic ‘ romance ’ , Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre. Whilst both novels share similar themes and motifs, there is one thing that Rebecca has over Bronte: Mrs Danvers. The formidable housekeeper at Manderley, Mrs Danvers functions as the most deliciously ambiguous character in the entire novel as she remains unreservedly devoted to her former mistress. Our narrator finds herself in a totally new environment trying to live up to the woman who came before her and Du Maurier o ers a fascinating study of what we expect from women and how this impacts on what they expect from themselves. Ultimately, the thing I love most about Rebecca is that it is a true mystery, buttressed with coastal seaside estates and haunting former wives. So much of the unsettled atmosphere is constructed through the important setting of the manor as well as the uncertainty and fear of upsetting any pre-established social proprieties. Once you have finished this masterpiece, please turn your attentions to Alfred Hitchcock’s incredible film version from 1940 which is a classic in its own right Please do not waste your time watching the recent film adaption on Netflix.
GRADES 11&12
The Secret History by Donna Tartt (Ages 17+)
“I suppose at one time in my life I might have had any number of stories, but now there is no other. This is the only story I will ever be able to tell.”
This book single-handedly coined the term ‘dark academia’ (not literally, but you’ll get what I mean) I read this for the first time when I was at university and loved it I then read it more than a decade later when we were in lockdown to see if it truly was ‘ as good as I remembered it’. A resounding yes. Donna Tartt’s first novel is the ultimate ‘whydunnit’ rather than a ‘whodunnit’. The murder in question is revealed as part of its opening pages; the next 600 or say take its reader on the journey to explore what lead to such an event had to take place and what possible ‘justification’ could be made. The Secret History was written and is based in the early 1990s where we had far less competing for our time and attention Those students of mine who have read this book absolutely adore it because it evokes a time and place that is now quite lost to us. Having said that, this book’s ability to create tension have many people labelling it as a ‘thriller’. The truth, however, is that this novel defies categorization.
We have our misfit protagonist, Richard Papen reflecting on his time at a New England arts university based o Tartt’s own alma mater, Bennington. Richard begins very much on as an outsider before infiltrating himself into a group of ‘misfits’ who honestly remind me a bit more of the Cullen family from ‘Twilight’ – they’re ‘cool’ outsiders, haughty (and haunting), clever, self-absorbed. You feel the gravitational pull towards them whilst knowing that they are terrible people These are characters that you love to hate. The novel explores the lengths that we go to, to impress others, an examination of some of the tragic underpinnings of classical literature and has such a delightfully Dickensian cast of characters that are larger than life. This novel is equal parts charming and devastating and Tartt is so controlled in her writing that despite its length (English teachers get intimidated by big books too), I could not put it down. We, the reader, like Richard are welcomed in on a secret that transfixes and intoxicates. There’s nothing like flirting with a little bit of danger.
By Alice Sibley
We Are All Dust
It’s this sentimentality, this hollowness that eats me from the inside outside. When I look at myself in the mirror. I see me. An apple. The Maggots eating at me from the inside. Except The Maggots don’t exist, and neither do I and neither does the apple. There is only dust. There is just dust, and it spirals and dances and dies- rebirthing and settling and spinning and crying with the wind. The dust is gentle but not fragile. It kisses and it hugs and it slaps and screams and it’s eating me from the inside out. I don’t see the dust, and the dust doesn’t see me- but the two of us are one and it is as one we shall remain- the two of us are somewhat whole and somewhat empty- searching for a missing part, a part to fill the void that seems to stretch on for ever and ever- making us wonder if it even truly existed- yet, as we search and peer and gigglehidden behind corners, whispering secrets- our ears goose-bumped. We find everything it seems. Everything but ourselves.
By Anonymous
Year 12
You know what I listen to when I study BROWN NOISE
It sounds like a heater up high It’s been playing for over eight hours total. When will it end? I ask myself. When will the brown noise cease? When will it be quiet? Never. It’s poignant It’s harrowing
But it’s true
The brown noise never stops.
Acknowledgements
Well aware that you have read through many beautiful pieces now, I will keep my acknowledgements brief as no words can truly sum up how much of a team effort this zine is ‘Love, Stella’, not to become caught up on semantics, is truly the most fitting name for this magazine as it is not without a love for literature and the involvement of Stella as a whole that something like this can be achieved.
Somehow, in its second edition, ‘Love, Stella’ has only become more and more invigorating Seeing other people fall in love with the project, just as I have, has brought me an incredible amount of gratification, but also it’s crafted a strong sense of community within The Stella Society Stella, in many ways, is a community, it’s a group of people- big to small, boarders to day girls, parents to students to staff- together In my view, ‘Love, Stella’ is something that should be read with company- it is something to be discussed and to be felt Yet, should you be reading it alone I do hope each student’s and teacher’s voice shines through. While this magazine prides itself on it’s diverse voice, at it’s core, it is a mosaic of the people who ‘Love, Stella’ (get it) Hence, it is the passionate and vibrant members of The Stella Society I want to thank first. You have been incredibly motivating to me (as a leader), you work hard (and evidently produce some pretty spectacular work) but most of all you are committed and patient. Hearing how much you all love the zine has meant the world to me but nothing lights up my day quite as much as walking into The Seminar Room on a Friday and seeing everyone there waiting So thank you- Thank you for these brilliant pieces and the effort and love you ’ ve put into them, thank you for always filling out the obscene amount of Microsoft Forms I send you, and reading the emails (which I’ve heard some Stella members refer to as ‘ essays’)- thank you for your passion
In particular, I want to say a special thank you to Olivia Jane and Elektra Katsalidas Having written for ‘Love, Stella’ twice now, both of these students have been undeniably dedicated to ensuring this zine continues to run smoothly and effectively Firstly, I want to thank Olivia who is at every meeting, always has her work in on time and who, despite certainly not being the loudest student in the room, is undoubtedly one of the most consistent Thank you Similarly, I want to thank Elektra, who leaves my jaw hanging open every time I see her work. Elektra your sheer talent is enviable however, what I think you deserve the highest praise for is your adaptability and your understanding Like Olivia, you ’ re at almost every meeting and to every meeting you bring not only insight but also effort The importance of which I believe is incredibly understated
Moving on from this, I’d like to acknowledge the hard work of the teachers and Melbourne Girls Grammar Community involved in the creation of edition two of the zine The teachers that we grow up around shape us, they are essential in guiding who we become and what values we are taught I can say, on the cusp of my graduation, that these Melbourne Girls Grammar staff members are setting a divine example. In particular, I’d like to thank Mia Purvis who takes care of everything digitally and makes advertisement possible. I’d also like to acknowledge Ms Malbon, who displays a constant optimism about and enthusiasm for The Stella Society Perhaps most crucially though, as always, I’d like to thank Ms Sibley Ms Sibley is at every meeting, she has a dark talent for responding to my regular emails in 3 minutes tops and her passion for Stella knows no limits She is the heart of Stella Without staff members like her, clubs and magazines like these would just not function.
So, thank you
Ultimately, however, I’d like to thank YOU Magazines are futile without readers and you can only imagine the way students’ faces lit up when they heard how many readers they had in edition one If you ’ re back after the first edition- thank you! However, if this is your first reading- welcome
