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November 3rd, 2009

02:49 pm - Icicles When I make analogies, they are more often from prediction than experience. As such, I shall try another. Despite having only ever driven a Fiesta and a Micra, my academic outlook has changed over the past 12 months: from a luxury vehicle with too many gadgets that I cannot understand; to a period without one at all; now to a nice vintage model that I’m struggling to start. (Edit: having forgotten about it, ignitions failing came onto the horizon 5 months ago). My place at Royal Holloway came through eventually, and was aided by a ‘Bradley de Glehn’ scholarship for one year. It was a great relief; evidence, it seemed, that the Geneva episode has not yet rendered me useless. There are enough PhD students to outnumber available jobs by 10:1, and if, after two years with teaching and admin experience, a university could not offer a little aid to ensure that I finish, there really would be no hope left of resuming an academic career. Alas, I might have hoped that the scholarship was awarded for my research. It could not have been, for nothing was looked at until after term started. Perhaps my referees have shown greater faith in me that I have left. In the few very direct supervision meetings we have had, my project has been unpicked and my Geneva work undone. It is like the drabble I use in my tuition classes, ’26 Letters in the Meaning of Life’, crossed with My Cousin Vinny. I thought I had constructed a great subject and a reasonable way of going about it. Yet the playing card has been turned until what looked solid now looks wafer thin. It is hard to come to terms with because it insinuates that the project I would have happily gone on to complete in Geneva was either flawed or substandard, and I don't like the implications it has for the credentials of the other fine professionals who were supporting me there. For the sudden bombshell (and it was a bombshell), it has been nervously exciting. I have learnt a lot in a short space of time. Despite a psychologically troubled start to Holloway, I am integrating quite well into the research culture required. Very much left to my own devices, I have discovered and identified the internal research courses required, and attended enough outside events already to fulfil my yearly quota. I have sat with another batch of outstanding scholars, including Dr. Robert Wilcher and Sir Brian Vickers, at the British Academy. A database of commitments and a detailed research log have been kept up-to-date, and all seems in control. With regards to the thesis, I have come to understand the changes that are to be made, and the great amount of work yet to be done. I have been able to subtly negotiate my way around the existing structure to create a thematic one rather than a chronological one; it even seems more fulfilling to anticipate it this way. However, the ‘Geneva work undone’ has been a profound effect. For all the difficulties in Switzerland, Lukas and department gave me great confidence and encouragement in my work and abilities. I could not have hoped for a better supervisor and finer man than someone who takes interest in you as an employee, as a researcher, and, most importantly, as a person. Feedback was always constructive, discussions were balanced, and I learnt to write (my MSc thesis will confirm that this skill was previously non-existant) partly through the opportunities I got to teach essay writing (which taught me as much), and partly through Prof. Erne’s patience and interest in what I had to say. I could experiment with ideas, unpack previously contorted ideas, and be a little more expansive. It was a disappointment to understand that, firstly, the scholarship here at Holloway did not derive from my current works at all – more down to charity. It was more of a shock to the system, however, that my existing work was received with a certain grain of impatience, boredom and frustration here at Holloway. Plenty of it adds nothing, the style is profligate and too interwoven... The one element/skill I’ve grown to feel much more secure about, and that’s now thrown into disarray. I’m not sure where I stand with it any more. The consequences are reaching. I was tasked to begin a new introduction of 5-10 pages to be submitted last week. It is barely started. It is a hard notion that, after two years of encouragement and 30,000 words completed on the research front, and sacrifice behind the scenes, I am somewhat humiliated into starting again. I do not know how to write to please my new supervisor, and without him being happy, I will get nowhere. How can I plunge all my efforts into writing with no idea whether I will have lines in pencil slashed all over. “Do it again”. It burdens me that I have an article which I would really like to submit for publication, affiliated to the University of Geneva, as is owed, but I daren’t proceed because of the derisory objection I expect to face. I am left completely to build up my own academic CV at Holloway. I have no problems doing that if my inhibitions will allow me; in this case, they do not. Yes, the world of academia is a harsh one and standards are all important. However, not only is it such a change to have work that wielded encouragement from one side now hacked apart by another, but this PhD pod is still a fickle creature. I don’t really expect to make it into university academia any more. A year of sixth-form English taught by the late Mr. Jeremy Thomas, despite its failings, probably encouraged me to go on and take English at university. I was introduced to Browning and Donne, and fell more in love with poetry. “English Literature is for mature and sensitive readers”, he would say, and I loved attaching those attributes to the subject. Yet the more I ‘experience’ English, the more it seems a colder and colder subject. Tutoring experiences will show me the same from my pupils’ experiences at school. Perhaps this blind loyalty, along with others, has contributed towards the piercing stoicism of this year. I have a large sense of humour; I hope that everybody who knows me knows that. But I also have sore spots. I get scared visions of somebody seeing my circle thoughts with George Puttenham and ridiculing me. Open nerve wounds. That is one of a great list that makes silence a better option. The video post, 'Body Schema' on RoyalArbor demonstrated mild hysteria due to a sudden backlash from the changes mentioned here. A realisation was manifesting itself that to survive this PhD I will have to adopt a new cold, hard, serious professionalism in place of the richer, more spontaneous endeavour that has kept me going (and seen its rewards) in the past; it’s an adjustment that I’m struggling to make. In a stretch to retain myself, I wrote on one of my sorest and deepest wounds for the Holloway newspaper, The Founder, which is due out tomorrow. I am hoping, as narcissistic as it sounds, that I might get some correspondence from the piece: to rebuild confidence in my writing, where it seems now held in one dismissive, dominant grasp; to give something back through writing; and because I want it to mean something. It is a difficult formula. Pour boiling water onto frozen glass and it will shatter. I hope, in this complicated times, to find dialogue in the right kind of warmth to keep the flames burning. Current Mood: confused Current Music: The Thirteen Senses: Into the Fire

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May 18th, 2009

12:30 pm - Quality Control There has been a disconcerting amount of press over the last 12 months regarding the declining standards of PhDs, most of which seems to emanate from concerns raised by academic staff. True, there has been plenty of defence along the way, but headlines such as 'Taboo but True: PhD students "not up to scratch"' and 'Academics fear PhD quality is slipping' seem to point towards the average opinion being more negative than positive. A story that really did catch my attention with its closeness to my own area, 'The War of Cromwell's Teeth' really opened my eyes to the internal, background pressures that can be placed upon academics to accept chronically weak candidates. Most of the articles in question address subjects and disciplines far removed from my own, but from a selfish point of view, I really fear this wave of commercialisation corrupting universities - as accepting this candidate would have demonstrated - and this qualification subsequently being undermined. I am currently waiting for a vital decision from Royal Holloway to complete my PhD, 2 1/2 months after applying. The delay is frustrating because as I continue working independently, albeit to fairly productive effect, all it means is that there is increasingly more to lose if the decision is not in my favour. What puts the decision in doubt is the stipulations I had to make in the application. I am prepared and almost able to fund myself for 18 months, which is all that should be needed to complete the PhD. However, when searching for advice about how to address this problem, the rulebook (understandably enough) came in reply: a minimum of 2 years registration because of the great level of monitoring imposed by the UK government and Research Councils into doctoral studies, and a transfer is not a viable option either. The irony is, of course, that the teaching experience, research practice opportunities, and administrative involvement in Geneva far surpasses any training I could expect to receive in the UK. The four seminar course in Edinburgh, assessed once by an annotated bibliography, is experienced proof. However, if this recent press is to be believed, it also appears that these impeccable standards that would inhibit me against good sense are not being upheld to quite the same degree elsewhere. There is no bitterness about the delay. Where once there might have been a sniff of entitlement that a project worthy of a teaching role at the University of Geneva might be worthy any small subsidy in this country, I would sooner feel sure that applications get the right scrutiny, and that internal funding is allocated correctly. The inner frustration is watching the PhD crashing as a benchmark when I see it as the only possible opportunity to progress in whatever I choose to do. On the same note, if that is the case, why should I find it so difficult to get my own project, which was once tipped for an Oxford University Press submission, completed, if candidates elsewhere can end up with a level qualification to such scepticism? In tune with this circle of thought, I rejoined Newcastle University Library last week (making this seem like much younger days) for a £30 fee, further proof of how my Geneva student card is worthless here. However, it was wonderful being back inside a good university library, and I finally got my hands on a new study of great importance, Poetry and Allegiance in the English Civil Wars: Marvell and the Cause of Wit, by the much revered Prof. Nicholas McDowell. With this sphere of negative press, the pressure has been on to locate the unique aspect of my thesis with the latest work in the field, which actually does more to open up Marvell away from the enigmatic, private man that I am proposing. I would like to record a short extract here to see if it stands up to the scrutiny of anybody who may come across it. References have been removed, but I would be glad to disclose or discuss any of this further. ( Extract ) Current Mood: working Current Music: Pet Shop Boys: Did You See Me Coming?

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March 18th, 2009

01:20 pm - Quietude This journal is normally the most neglected of my active webspace due to having too little time or energy left to report the various events of academic pursuit (which have, to be fair, made up most of the excitement of recent times). It is right to come out and confess, if most prominently to myself, that the lack of activity here since the turn of 2009 is more down to lack of work and progress in this area. It is a double-edged sword. Before leaving Geneva, I remember saying that I believed being at home would make little difference to my progress. It had worked during my Masters year, and there was no reason why it should not again. After six weeks at home and only a few pages ahead of the thesis (which, the file tells me, has not been touched in 2 weeks), recent reflections have dwelt on a different story. The psychological repercussions of returning home need not be documented any more, suffice to say that having a solid mind helps towards writing. I am in no position to say that academic writing is any more demanding than any other; indeed, recent attempts at my own column have shown how much investigation needs to be carried out for plausible writing at any subject. But thesis writing needs to combine the hard graft of method and accuracy with a certain amount of creativity, and both facets can be sunk when the head is not in the right place. But where does the problem lie? I have accepted plenty of blame and guilt. My physical health is slowing improving, and while that should be seen as a positive, evidence of how necessary it was to leave, it only tends to serve as a discerning signal that it might have been possible to survive somehow overseas. One kind of mental deficiency is being replaced by another, and this is where I need to battle to save my own sanctity. It could be pure coincidence, it could be a chronic lack of confidence on my part, but when I am working on a project to myself and for myself, a little help along the way really does help. From the office in Geneva, help seemed to be forthcoming, but since I left, it is almost as if the loss of status has been painfully transparent in a discriminatory way. Professors don't reply to me, even when they confess I have done them a favour, and even my own ex-office mates have not replied to a message sent last week which was moderately time-sensitive. Meanwhile, the work continues to come from Geneva; there will be an unearthly amount of unpaid work by the end, and for the love of one's job, they are not the easiest tasks to motivate oneself for while struggling along at £15 per week. It's easy to lose faith in people. "Failure, like familiarity, breeds contempt"? So, what to do about this? All I can do is try. I'm trying alternative writing, for what little use it might prove, in case this meandering move to Royal Holloway does not work out. I've been in this period of training for long enough to know that while English Literature is a subject that anyone can do well enough, good writing requires talent. To some degree, it could be polarized as a facet that you have either got or you haven't. An old teacher (a friend who is always accurate) told me some years ago that I lacked natural flair in my writing. In that case, I'm happy to test the ground, and perhaps apply for a little free freelance work to see whether my standard is any good. I need to wake up to life again. That puts me back in control. For goodness sake: the conference at Cambridge, world-renowned professors using my syllabus ... this downwards spiral, approaching a confidence crisis, has trickled on for so long that it makes me completely forget the positives and hold no hope. I want to enjoy the little pleasures when they come along, given how small a budget there is to work with. A few late-night bowling trips since I returned have been great therapy. Last week, I scored 167 and 143. There is music to be indulged in again. There are writing spaces to be used. The sun is shining. It is damned hard to rely on yourself for happiness, but ... [and after much thought, this sentence, which should have an ending, does not find one]. Current Mood: determined Current Music: Lily Allen: Fear

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January 22nd, 2009

07:30 pm - Will Find a Way [The picture and sentiment in the post below, Time Out, suit the moment so much better]. It is nights like this where I am glad for another space to turn to. There remains such a rich and sweet and sure source of support on my sister journal that I cannot let that be followed by any more disappointment. And it goes without saying that replying to those beautiful responses is the most important task, which is why this unimportant effort has to come here. I need to get a grip on this situation. The academic climbs of the past few months, even the past two weeks, have been outstanding. I have spoken with people, who, before this period, I would only have dreamt of meeting; Professors contacting little me through various channels found on the internet and offering all sorts of help - unimaginable. Might even have the first little publication announced in a few days... And yet, for all this, my mind is constantly preoccupied with problems. As much as the people in this department are wonderful, this place is a recurrent nightmare. There are four separate forms to be filled in to leave the country, which need delivering to different places. What's more, forms get exchanged for further forms to go to other places, and a charge is levied to have one of them authorised. On a separate matter, I went today to try and sort out the extremely messy business of matriculation, 12 months after I was last at the office where the scary official looked disapprovingly at my attempts at French, and, no doubt aware of the necessary French exam, suggested that the next time I went there I would be speaking much better French if I hoped to continue. There had been a misunderstanding, and the stern headmistress was even less impressed this morning at why I hadn't appeared for her summons last year. The reason, apart from being rather scared out of my wits, was that my registration file was complete apart from the thesis registration letter from the council which had not met at that point, and she said that she would receive a copy of that directly. Thereafter, everything would be done by post, as it always is. But no: it appears she is not satisfied that she has seen original documents, even though I went through the painstaking process of getting them here, taking them last year, and she herself offering to copy them. Therefore everything stalled, indefinitely. I should not have let myself be intimidated today, but without a firm enough grip of the language to backup my 'Je les ai apporté' without thinking and with authority, I was left then to shiver through coat and scarf through the various shakings of the head from the other side of the desk. The positive upshot of this, and there is one, is that I should be guaranteed student status at Geneva in absentia until at least September for a nominal fee of 65 CHF [c. £40(!)] for the six months, with Lukas' supervision. I have to head back to face the stern headmistress first thing tomorrow with the official documents, God help me, and then to the bank straight after with my new crappy student card hoping I can get the monthly fees (for simply having an account) reversed, as I have been entitled to since arriving. It has become too large an amount to just overlook, but with the likelihood of having to surrender my living permit (doing things the right way, where the temptation must be to forget it all and just disappear), I will have to close it in a week, and even if the bank does agree to reimburse, I cannot see it happening that soon. Alas, the tax reimbursement I had also started to get my hopes up about does not look likely either. I have to try to do my running around on Monday - as, for some reason, certain documents are only printed on the 26th of the month - alongside exam drop-offs at 8:00am and invigilation later in the morning. F .. F .. S .. What am I getting at here? I thought academia allowed all types of character, but I think I'm too timid to be pro-active in the ways you need to be. I have a complex about using the libraries here because of my track record of setting off the alarms. I would have been to the National Archives Office already by now if I wasn't so weary of asking for help when I got there. When my colleague Emma returned from a six-month period of leave and came back to the office last week, I found that my Cicero, Alphaville, Marvell and Enya quotes were gone from the whiteboard, replaced by some vile mess left for fun, and soon felt that my place was under the table. Some great things have blessed my academic spell here, but I don't see myself talking or even thinking about them here, in the very space this was created for. I started, even titled this post, determined to fight back a grim optimism, but instead I am guilty of recognizing, acknowledging, lamenting and questioning just how some of the fire I had even in long train journeys to Edinburgh and back, on grim and bitterly cold days, when a PhD seemed a far-ambitious option, has gone. Now, I am hoping that I will go back to my little, hellishly expensive apartment, (where a business card was mysteriously left yesterday), somehow cherish the time alone, and come back from the awkward outings tomorrow offers thinking that the title was well left, and that all of this is hasty and foolish. Perhaps this hollow period of doubt is strictly due to Geneva, and will evaporate when I am free of the vainer ties dissevered, in which case it serves well to remind me just why I've needed to sacrifice a treasured role. Perhaps it is something that every vain wannabe goes through. But perhaps I write this because every day of this final spell seems to reinforce the sentiments all the more. I'll sign off a 12 hour day with the words of Jack Bauer: 'I want my life back, and I want it now'. I'm not footnoting... Current Mood: Genevan, Guneven Current Music: James: Protect Me

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November 5th, 2008

03:30 pm - Time Out There is some space to breathe this week [finally], for the first time in what feels like some considerable time. Finally, after several weeks of lengthy texts in The Grand Remonstrance, Areopagitica, The Kings Cabinet Opened, we move to two weeks' respite with some decidedly dirty poetry (week 8), and some decidedly profound poetry (9). This may prove rather a false dawn however: next week is promising to be a heavier one with the additional doctoral commitments. The tasks and reading for the Early Modern Material Text MA Seminar I am following are quite demanding. Earlier this year, I was contacted by Prof. Anthony Mortimer about the paper I gave at the Origins Conference in April, relating to an essay he was completing on the Elegies for Cromwell. Marvell's elegy was placed within a collection of three (with Sprat and Dryden), and then replaced at a late stage by Edmund Waller's before publication; the title of my paper, 'One of the Three', had been misleading on that occasion. Prof. Mortimer will be speaking at our fortnightly Doctoral Workshop next week on this very subject, and the onus will be on me as the single person this applies most directly to, and who should benefit the most from this session. Fantastic, of course, but the 24 pages of poetry is no light preparatory task. It is always fascinating to see the rise and fall of different components of this kind of occupation. I submitted the first section of my PhD two weeks ago, which saw a catch-up after the French and ongoing problems that I could not have imagined. The feedback on that, as ever from Prof. Erne, has been terrific and productive. The research component of my work, then, saw a gradual rise to intensity (with the heavier teaching load) over the first half of this semester, and the submission of that work has allowed breathing space there. I have submitted an extract for an exciting conference in January, and committed myself to presenting a draft of the paper, successful or otherwise, at the final Doctoral Workshop in December. No easy route home to Christmas. Teaching, of course, has continued to be important, and the turn to poetry, which should also allow my students the time they need to complete a short portfolio of research assignments which is due for me on the 14th November, gives that some breathing space as well. We do return, however, to Hobbes' De Cive, Charles I's Eikon Basilike and Milton's Eikonoklastes before the end of the course. The MA Seminar I am following is time consuming, but not only helpful to the CV - with my postgraduate qualification purely research based - but is it directing me in new ways. Firstly, there is plenty to say about the textual, bibliographical and authorial properties (or lack, thereof) of Marvell's work, which has previously been lacking in my thesis, and which I am striving to include. With Marvell, I am suggesting an unorthodox, sui generis model of authorship considering the private writer. Secondly, I am being directed to important texts, patterns, and disciplines within this terrifying myriad of early modern literature, which I need to know as well and widely as possible. Outside of that, there are a number of small tasks that do need to be done. There's keeping my course database up-to-date, as well as the course website, answering student queries, and, this week, trying to find out when the remaining students from the spring Andrew Marvell seminar plan to submit work. Additionally, I'm normally more actively involved with Noted than I have been, including the forum (which desperately needs updating), and there's normally a background article circulating in my mind for each issue. And, I've been asked to help out with the Study Abroad Scheme in the second half of this semester, to try and encourage more of our students to spend time improving their English in an Anglophone country. So, the weight of these components changes week on week; the overall workload changes week on week. Normally, my compromise has been on a Friday afternoon when I've often been too tired to do very much at all. This week, unusually, there has been some rare room to breathe as I have gone along. I have needed it, certainly, for there have been difficulties this week; times when I realize that I cannot hide at the office, in my work, or otherwise. Facing up to the future, as difficult and potentially poignant as it may be, is the order of this time. I owe this entry outwards. The amount of support for the troubles this year has been overwhelming. Now dropped out of the realms of easy sociability, I have become so distant, private, and insular that I have feared that status and position are what keeps me afloat in my own eyes and those of others. I lost sight of the bigger picture that I used to hold: that friends are the basis of that support. I could only ask for understanding. Being here, there have been weekends where I have gone from Friday to Tuesday without leaving my 40 square metre apartment and without speaking to a single person. If one wonders why the Stockholm syndrome exists, clearly there is some kind of adaptive process to the extreme kinds of company that are kept - even the extremity of emptiness. Not even that I have complained too much; it is a stasis I feel able to cope with some or most of the time. But, whether this is any cause, effect, by-product, other or none of the above, the personal problems here have made it unsustainable. The list of sacrifices keep growing, and has now become profoundly significant. But this is not to deny that support. The problem I foresaw was work: my boss and the other staff, and I have kept as low profile as possible to avoid the sense of shame that burned within. Last week, this took a very positive step forward. I had come to believe that the hardest part of the final few months would be continuing awkwardness at the office. Having read through my submitted work, Lukas came to speak to me about potential future options, and to solidify the reasons for leaving. It was an amazing discussion, and it has made me scorn my previous doubts about how my last few months here would be, especially my relationship with my supervisor. I settled the grimace I had concerning the difference between keeping something concealed and not telling the truth. I confessed that having seen illness used as an excuse so many times, I almost assume the very same of myself. I could speak highly of the department and all its wonderful people. Moreover, the PhD section seemed to make something click. Six weeks ago, when the resignation was settled, I made a rather awkward proposal that I would like to keep my ties with Geneva, and that it was important to acknowledge that the department had helped me make significant progress. "How!?" came the response. Now that my supervisor has seen a moderately substantial piece of work - the first submitted (apart from the review) since I arrived here - the attitude towards this now appears to have changed. I pointed to the difference between the Masters thesis (which I cannot now believe achieved the award that it did, but perhaps that's just the sign of progress) and the work submitted, as the result of my time in Geneva; that argument was now taken seriously. So, the signs concerning the potential quality of the work that emerges when I have the time and the opportunity to make it happen are exciting. But the main question remains, where can I go from here? It was a question I have been waiting to ask: I will need to contact and negotiate with universities, and I did not want to do that without my supervisor's consent. When is the right time? I am very glad that he helped make that very easy for me in the end, and offered some great advice. What are the available options? The obvious choices are Royal Holloway, with its unbeatable supervisory team, great location, and strong social possibilities; or Bristol, because of the excellent PhD thesis by John McWilliams that emerged from there in 2003, proving the supervisory capacity of that department. The other options would be to remain much closer to home: Newcastle, Durham, perhaps even York or, once again, Edinburgh. The major complication is that I do not wish to start again on a 3 year period. Even if I was to reapply for the Arts and Humanities Research Council (AHRC) grant, for which I would have a much better chance now, I still think 3 years would be a waste. I could work unsupervised until next September, thanks to the generosity of Newcastle University's library, and hopefully my sister's Athens password. By then, I would be 18 months part-time, 6 months full-time into an upgrade of a Masters thesis to a PhD thesis, and should not need any longer than 18 months to complete. That would also be the limit of what I could afford if paying postgraduate fees. Ideally then, I would be aiming to enter at the upgrade stage from MPhil to PhD. This will be a difficult prospect. Universities tend to be strict about their postgraduate regulations for one, and why shouldn't they be, when it protects their academic integrity in awarding one of the highest accolades? They are also territorial about their PhD theses, and why shouldn't they be, when it protects the interests of students who have undertaken study there, and recognizes the supervisor's input? 'Transferring' is possible, so I understand from research into these postgraduate regulations, but it will be at that department's discretion. That is where Bristol holds an institutional advantage: I am much more likely to gain a concession from a department that has knowledge of me. I cannot deny that Holloway is where I would like to be, but I have no academic connection with them whatsoever, and a further problem is the communicative mishap 2 years ago that will have dented their excellent record with the AHRC. And so Lukas asks 'what about joint-degrees'? I had never contemplated even the possibility of a PhD being awarded by two separate institutions, but it certainly says a lot for that submitted chapter that he would be happy to keep me affiliated with the department. Out of what has felt a chain of nightmares, this would be a dream solution: it would lessen the sense of failure at leaving; it would make the 18 months here feel worthwhile if the PhD was also granted by Geneva; it would keep ties open here whilst retaining Prof. Erne (with ever exalting status) as a secondary supervisor; and if this was possible, Lukas would find a way to circumvent the language requirement, given the certificates I acquired over the summer (which would make that hellish time worthwhile as well). This exchange idea, we agreed, would suit perfectly well: it would rightly accredit Geneva's department for the progress I have made here, and it would solve possible registration problems, but it is unlikely that a UK university will agree to this. In order for a UK department to accept, one might think that they would have to see some gain from a connection with the English Department here in Geneva. I doubt that gain would be student based: we do not carry a high profile for Erasmus (one of the things we must aim to change, of course); more it would be directly from Lukas himself. There are no connections at Bristol: but there is one possible, fruitful link with Royal Holloway. Shortly after I arrived here, one of my first tasks was to paginate the index for Prof. Erne's exciting new book, Shakespeare's Modern Collaborators (part of which can be seen here. This series, published by Continuum, is called "Shakespeare Now", of whom one of the general editors happens to be Dr. Ewan Fernie of Royal Holloway. Not only have I have the absolute pleasure of meeting Dr. Fernie at the RHUL postgraduate open day 18 months ago, when I was also afforded a personal appointment, but when I noticed this particular connection last September, I could not help but to contact him and inform him of my whereabouts. It even turned out that he had presented here in Geneva not long before I arrived. He wished me very well, described Lukas as one of the nicest and best scholars in early modern literature (true to the word), and said I should keep in touch about the possibilities of returning their as a visiting student in the later stages of my work. Alas, my situation is a little more refracted than that, but if there is any advocate to that connection, it is Dr. Fernie. Alas once again, I think his postgraduate duties now belong elsewhere, but might I contact him first before potential supervisor (and head of postgraduate research, Prof. Dzelzainis)? The time can fleet. Into November we trail. I need to make inquiries and set things in motion. Next month, I am planning to attend a John Milton conference at the British Academy. Both potential supervisors be present (and it would be the first time of meeting them both), amidst a spectacular elite of mid-seventeenth-century scholars, and most of my academic idols. I am weak at the very thought of it - and how wonderful to see my old dissertation supervisor from Bristol, Prof. David Hopkins heading the bill (it is refreshing and nostalgic to remind myself of this (especially given the title), this, and this (especially the final sentence). I will have a collection of books to be signed by these scholars, not least Prof. Hopkins' Poets on Poets, who was so modestly embarrassed when I told him I'd bought his book and would love it signed - back three years ago. I've reviewed my idol Prof. Worden's book this summer; Prof. Norbrook and Prof. Keeble's books are sat proudly in my office. I need to have made preliminary inquiries before this conference happens, and for all the amazing possibilities that could befall, I am more worried about them crashing down and burning. The future has to be faced; the steps need to be taken. I certainly needed to steady the mind here first. Current Mood: nervous Current Music: Alphaville: Tempelhof [which closed on 30th October 2008]

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October 22nd, 2008

03:30 am - Rehearsal Transpros'd This is absolutely the wrong time to write, but the right occasion. In an email to my supervisor written just minutes ago, I noted that this week, which has been spent engrossed in research and writing, has been the kind where every glance at the clock has seen the time move on two hours or more. Likewise, every time I come to this journal, a month or more has somehow passed. Perhaps summaries that were any more frequent would have nothing of interest in summaries - it is only over a period of time that events surmount to anything worth the mention. On the other hand, I seem to find as often these days as undergraduate days that things often do seem to come all at once, so perhaps I owe myself no apologies. Within the last month, I had to come clean about what a personal disaster 2008 had been. It has been quite a hurdle, and obviously it is much better having cleared it, but I am still not quite sure, bizarrely enough, whether I feel more grown up for having done it, or childish for what has happened. The support has been amazing: it has been subtle, but strong; it has cushioned rather than over-comforted. When this all came out, I felt open wounds inflicted because of what I had done/said/not said - I looked forward to a little bit of time passing and these healing, and I think that has happened. The backdrop to all this is that for the first time in what has felt like an age, I have been able to just keep a low profile and lose myself into work; doing what I do best. The distractions have been a benefit in a paradoxical way; they can often help me focus more intensely on my work. Plus, momentum is a massive factor. Every time I pause from research/writing for more than a few days, it starts to slip away, and the struggling cogs need re-oiling constantly. Once that momentum is in full-flow, I get totally 'in the zone'; the most apt expression I can think of. The downside of this - and one I kind of appreciate from last year - is that everything else stops. I let the bubble form around me, and adrenalin takes over, the caffeine takes over, the sleeping pattern disappears, the place becomes strewn with books, and I do not cross the doors. I have quite a kind schedule which has allowed this to happen. Tuesdays are spent preparing for Wednesday's events; Wednesday sees an M.A. seminar on The Early Modern Material Text, and a Medieval/Early Modern Doctoral workshop. Thursdays are spent preparing for my teaching on Friday dawn; by the end of class, Friday 10 am, I'm exhausted. But, after some time out, it does give me Friday afternoon until Monday night to dedicate to my own work. The last few weekends have been totally secular, and yesterday marked the result as I neared completion of the first section of the PhD. With that came the dissolution of the bubble - almost like a womb - I come out weak, tired, slightly disorientated, and more alive to the world. Today I proof-read and checked references, and tonight I submitted. Apart from my composite review, completed this summer after extensive revision (the notes I received were as long as the piece itself), this is the first work I have submitted since the Masters dissertation itself back in August 2007. True, the result of that ended up very pleasing, but the nerves are still quite intense given that it's impossible to know how the standard relates to where it should be after considerable gaps between the submission of work. I am 13 months into my tenure here. The commitments have been wide and varied, and I have certainly not handled them all well enough to compass a regular pattern of research and writing (even if it suits better to write in more intense phases when the time is right). Even though it is now somewhat irrelevant, I was 4 months behind my original research schedule, but I have fought back to 1 month behind a revised schedule to account for the French courses, and the size of the written piece is much larger than expected. When I consider what has been achieved in the 9 weeks following the 9 weeks of French: full course construction and weekly preparation, undertaking a Masters course, and drafting a 12,100 word chapter (16,500 with notes), with the disruptive background context of the last month, I am taking a moment out to be proud, whatever the feedback from this recent submission might be. I have been highly fortunate in working myself into a topic that was not only highly convincing, but also much bigger than the 30,000 word Masters dissertation required. I am not only comfortable in expanding all my material without a stretch, as the introduction demonstrates (2,500 - 12,000), but I absolutely believe in it as well. What has needed to improve is the quality of the writing, the accessibility of the writing - all the basics! That is what so much attention has been dedicated towards in this opening. It is also why the introduction has inflated so much. My previous work takes an awful lot for granted. It begins on my own level, so to speak, which is one so convoluted in Marvell that the basics do not need outlining. It is also quite difficult to read. I have had a tight but tortuous style, which worked perfectly well in my own head at the time and which does get easier as you get used to it, but it has needed improvement. I think what has compounded the nerves is the idea of improving work by diluting it, by making it seem (or so it seemed at the beginning of the task) 'less impressive'. By the end of this, however, I have started to understand an awful lot more about how this fits together as a chapter in itself, and as part of a greater whole. I worked more closely with paragraphing, with syntax, and continuity. I learned how to challenge several existing conceptual models that do not encompass Marvell effectively. These seem to be the challenges faced in writing a thesis. I needed to come down off the pedestal which announced my topic to somebody as ingrained with Marvell as I have been, but to strike the right register. The piece needs to work in the same way as a film sequel: in other words, it predicts a certain amount of knowledge about the subject area and what has come before, but it still details what is necessary to work in its own right. I have learned so much from, and been inspired by, Dr. McWilliams' thesis. It reads so fluently, and is informative, patient, detailed, and structured. It makes pages fly by, and the beauty of that is that it gives me confidence to spend a few pages elucidating a matter where before I had such a fickle confidence in structure that I never wanted to feel like I was straying too far from the major point in case it was lost or forgotten. Ironically, it is the tortuous, tighter structure which tries to achieve the same in a much shorter space that has greater chance of losing the reader. There is a way of 'riching up' or 'glamorising' prose, I think, which is what is often seen in conference papers. And the conference paper given in April has been the halfway-house, so to speak. Writing for oral presentation is a very different exercise; condensing is needed, simplification is needed, and performance is needed (which can make all the nice rich generalized ideas more convincing). Back in April I had condensed three chapters of my Masters work (18,000 words) into a 20 minute paper. My last task here, incidentally, might be to complete transforming that into a journal article if possible as a convincing written exercise. But, it was nice to have the right excuse to reconfigure my work so that I was not straining so hard with it myself. It is hard finding that register, but there is plenty of space to be nice and clear when there are between 80,000 and 100,000 words to play with. Often during the development of this recent chapter, I have noticed what I would otherwise have deemed previously as repetition, over-simplification or just empty detail. But, believe it or not, as long as the material does not become irrelevant, it all adds to a healthy sense of completion that I have never felt before. What I submitted this evening has seemed, at times, in my own head, to be the simplest piece I have produced at university level. Yet it also feels like the best work I have ever produced. There is a difference, I grow to recognize, between simplicity and clarity; there is a difference between straining to impress with a topic through tortuousness and being totally in control of it to display it with relative ease. I am trying to have quiet confidence in all of this. I have learned a huge amount over the last year. This thesis now contextualizes in ways it could not before. It is now able to challenge fields that I knew nothing about before I arrived here. In short, I do not know how the Masters result was so positive with the dissertation I submitted - perhaps for the idea rather than the execution - but to feel that I have moved on a distance from that details good progress. And again, I want to try and create the record for myself here: I know that my new introduction has some crazy/innovative ideas that are thrown in just to test to tide, but reading this piece back before submitting has given me some renewed confidence in my writing ability that has been distant. Not even the result was able to raise it, because I knew I still had no control over the kinds of register that I wanted. Feeling able to come to my different journals and write has been difficult for a number of reasons, but I've long known that my style is overblown and normally difficult to understand. Any worries about reception, and that stylistic flaw just magnifies. Given that much of the feedback my current supervisor has given on my old work was about the readability of prose, I hope there is some good feedback to come. The next task is applying for a conference on 'Changing and Continuity in Britain, c. 1640-1670' in early January, which is looking for postgraduate contributions, but has top class keynote speakers. This would be a real challenge, but an excellent sign-out to my tenure here. Current Mood: exhausted Current Music: Gabriella Cilmi: (Nothing) Sweet About Me

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September 23rd, 2008

12:30 am - Literature and the English Civil War Presenting my second BA seminar, at the splendiferous time of Friday, 8:00am. The most bizarre factor of this is that I will end my teaching as the majority of people in the UK begin their school or working day. [With apologies for the poor quality image]. Front matter, syllabus, bibliography and further details can be found at the course website. In short, the course will firstly combine historical documents and poetry to introduce the history of the period with some literary reaction. Secondly it will uncover elements of partisanship - a recurring theme - including rhetorical strategies. Thirdly, we will address the public and private divide within the expanding pamphlet, propaganda and print culture (an alliterative haven), by examining some of the first English newspapers, Milton's Areopagitica, and The King's Cabinet Opened, the collection of King Charles' private letters intercepted and immediately published by his parliamentary opponents. Fourthly, we move to via activa and via contemplativa, otium and negotium, looking at some drama, poetry and pamphlets which encapsulate the essence of active, polemic support, and then the crux of whether escape literature can really offer escape, or even if it tries to. The final segment of the course is concerned with the aftermath of the Civil War and the regicide. Shortly after the King's death, the volume Eikon Basilike, a kind of diary, is released, to glorify the King's image and return the country to a monarchical moral righteousness. Abhorred at this, Milton reacts with an extraordinary counter-argument in his shatteringly titled Eikonoklastes. We also, in the aftermath, get the finest works of Hobbes and political thought on human nature and the omens for a republic, and finally the magnificent equipoise of Marvell's 'Horatian Ode' with its chilling Machiavellian overtones. I am very proud of this seminar 'package'. I was left with so little time to construct and prepare the course, and there are no external set-texts, nothing to help me along the way. I built my huge course reader from scratch: selecting, copying, editing texts and secondary sources to as polished a final product as could be made. I have been fortunate that, even as a more expansive topic, somehow it has just manoeuvered itself into place for what seems like a challenging, but reasonably well-balanced, course. It took two weeks of solid, and occasionally panic-ridden, graft: the final reader stands at something approaching 450 sheets, and will cost some 45 CHF (£20-£22) to reproduce. I have distanced myself from a fairly standard norm of class oral presentations, and have decided instead to give my class a custom designed portfolio of short research tasks to compile, which should refresh and develop skills learned in the first year which can then fade without practice in the less exam-intense BA seminar structure. Friday's first class enticed 11, the perfect number for optimal efficiency, and without doubt a really pleasing number for that day and hour. There is also a healthy contingent of male students. I am sure that the introduction to the witty and slanderous material presented in the first week was nothing like what was intended; that is partly what makes the English Civil War so appealing for me, whilst I cannot stand World War literature. It was an unofficial triumph to attract more people to my early modern seminar at 8am than another one that took place at midday, and I hope most decide to return. There has felt little choice over recent weeks and months other than to keep as quiet as possible about a number of difficult background issues. Of course, I am frustrated to a degree that I continue to play catch-up due to expensive summer activities that probably did more harm as good. All I can do is salvage some pride in what I've managed to achieve since then against some degree of adversity. The work so far in course preparation and so forth has allowed research to regain top priority, and I am trying to oil the armour's rust. The topic of authorship and post-structuralist theory is blowing my mind at the moment, but at least I'm there fighting. The intensity of the course production, together with collating and editing many of the texts for the collection, has meant that I have already read through most of the material once, and I can already envisage my preparation for this seminar being considerably more efficient than before. This semester remains a very important one. I have become increasingly drained this year, without a doubt, and the drive and workload remains furtive. I've had half an evening off tonight, and that should not bring such irrepressible guilt. But there is adrenalin there, for doing the work I love most, and not least for the light at the end of the tunnel. I continue to owe great debts of gratitude: to the great crowd that welcomed me back so warmly last month; and to syrendelalune, who has helped me keep going, in whatever shape that may be, and who, for all my academic 'majoritarian's and 'adversarian's, I am glad to have now on my side. I couldn't have made it on my own. Current Mood: tired Current Music: Jon & Vangelis: I'll Find My Way Home

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September 12th, 2008

03:00 pm - Samemes At the beginning of the summer, I was tasked with creating a poster for the Swiss Association of Medieval and Early Modern English Studies (SAMEMES). It was this newly formed association, chaired by my boss, Prof. Erne, whose inaugural opening Origins conference/seminar I presented at a few months ago. I made the gross mistake the first time around of creating this primarily for the upcoming first main conference, Pretexts, Intertextualities, and the Construction of Textual Identity, when it was meant to be generic, and having flattened a carefully created image, all needed to be done again. When the patience eventually rediscovered itself again, the final version was eventually made and accepted. (From left to right): The aforementioned conference will feature several presentations from Geneva: Petya Ivanova, Ioana Balgradean, Louise Wilson and Sarah Van der Laan; and plenary lectures from, amongst others, the world renowned Prof. Stephen Orgel, and, by wonderful coincidence, Bristol's Dr. Ad Putter (the academic myatt). Despite the obvious pleasures, I'm not sure how much I'm looking forward to it; once again, I am the solitary student male from Geneva, and I will be staying in a different building with different arrangements from everyone else. Given some background issues, expense, and probably a natural reluctance (thinking to the past of avoiding balls / graduations), I am not taking part in either the conference dinner on the first evening, or the lunch on the second day. All just a little awkward, and it can really take the shine off it all. I am glad it is only a one-night stay. Finally, on the artistic front, I have gone for a refresh. The course website has been updated, with a new (though simple) homepage; my staff webpage is updated; and this journal has been freshened up to look cool, acute, and sharp. What that is meant to symbolise at this point in time, I'm not sure; 'improvement' is a simple enough, and apt enough, target. Current Mood: indifferent Current Music: Jean-Jacques Goldman: Je Marche Seul

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June 30th, 2008

05:00 pm - Lost (For) Words I am not quite sure what to say, except that I should direct this here out of the limelight of all the well-deserved successes that are going on on bristolian_kam's friends list. I very much need a break. That feels like such a statement of weakness, and the 'trap' has prevented me from speaking aloud. From the 'outside', there is occasionally a stigma directed towards any educational-related vocation about extensive holidays, or something of that sort - to speak of breaks is embarrassing. 'Inside', we know life goes on as normal, and so it is just unfathomable that I think of it at all. This said, we have started our nine weeks of summer - weeks when research would take precedence, but when we would conceivably be allowed some dispensation for a decent break. Those nine weeks for me are taken up with intensive French classes (that is, 9:00-15:00 with 2 extra hours of pronunciation classes per week and around 3 hours of homework per evening), and I have now just survived the first week. For the placement test, I landed the level B2 - Advanced Intermediate - which was very promising, but it has been difficult to follow. My level of spoken French is clearly much lower than the rest of the class; I have had to fight quite hard to keep my own spirits up. What also saps so heavily is distance, absence, lack of opportunity, lack of possibility. Every time I am snatching leisure time, I am feeling very heavy for it. My last break, as I felt it, was Blackpool in September 2006, and even that had its difficulties, coming off the back of a second consecutive summer of 5 weeks of intensive summer school work. From that week in Blackpool, I started my Masters, which inevitably meant a few day-trips to Edinburgh as the grind started to set in. The late Autumn of 2006 was taken up by The Copt Hill, where I was given more and more hours as Christmas approached and staff continued to quit, until I ended up working around 13 of 15 days over the main festive period. I worked hard at my Masters, buoyed by the wonderful offer here, but with various problems in the background, it took a long, long summer of intensive grind to get the work completed. That done, there was a small window to prepare for moving abroad, with a preliminary visit required, and I arrived here beginning before my contract started as a goodwill gesture. A long 14 week semester of teaching, finding feet (and trying to find housing and so forth), ended on Friday 21st December. My 15 exam papers were due for marking on January 3rd, and a rushed 10 days at home felt anything but peaceful. Into this year, following the January exam session, there is normally a quiet period until the semester starts in February, and I over-exerted here on a few levels: over-preparing a very dense Andrew Marvell seminar for semester 2 for one, and trying to bypass some mysterious stomach ailment that lingered for weeks. This last semester, February to May, has been hectic, juggling with a conference paper (and a 'reader' for preparation) at the start of April, a demanding (but rewarding) class, a review of two books, and then the living arrangements requiring regular flights back to London. Of the recent June/summer exam session, I had 3 students of my 12 taking assessment (due to the bizarre system here that allows students to delay their first attempt until the third exam session following the course), but I was also designated second-marker/second examiner for some of Professor Erne's classes, which took up week 1. I had the luxury of going home for week 2 - luxury which pales with the details. Since I cannot come home via Newcastle outside of Winter months, I have had to use a variety of different UK airports and train connections to make my way home on the odd occasion I've had the chance to go. This time around I was relatively fortunate to get an affordable combination via Edinburgh Airport. Still, the flight was over an hour late, leading to rush hour traffic for the airport shuttle bus, and 2 hours by train from there. Once home, there was a list of tasks for me to help with, including resurrecting my sisters' computer, and also my middle sister's spectacularly failed coursework essay. There was also an interview on my parents' behalf, and trips to the bank. The five nights went alarmingly quickly, and the route back to Geneva included a long train journey to Derby, and then onto East Midlands Airport. This, however, was struck with problems due to a 'Download' music festival which had happened over that weekend at Donnington Park. Derby Station and its surrounds was crammed with festival folk, and the ride out to the Airport was slowed by festival traffic and traffic control measures. The day of travel sparked the beginning of exam week 3. The morning after this night arrival a few of us spent the day painting an office; I had my year's progress review, which had scared the living daylights out of me; and then entertained some of my colleagues here at my new place, which was also quite nerve-wracking. The rest of that week was spent tracking and photocopying documents for the boss before a department meeting at the end of the week. That was the Friday before last, and the French started the following Monday at 8:25. Last week, I think I felt the odd one out, which made it a bit harder rather than easier. I felt weak within the group, and with that, the sentiment stands out more within myself that I am not so much there because I want to be, but because I have to be. I envy those who chose to be here, and respect them for that. On Friday, we had a small debate; I couldn't say what I wanted to in French, and the teacher allowed a painful and awkward silence before allowing me to speak in English. Being lost for words, I was allowed to commit the sacrilege of speaking English. It was amusing enough, but reminded me of some less pleasant A-Level experiences. So like school: the weekend flew by all too quickly. I had spent most of Sunday doing homework exercises. I set off today at 8:20 in my normal shirt and trousers, and got drenched by a heavy downpour. By 11am, it was roasting once again, and the 25 minute uphill walk home is a killer. The temperature reached a high of 33 last week. I know it can be higher elsewhere, but spending 5 1/2 hours a day of intensive French in those conditions feel all the heavier. Within this, something is terribly wrong. I have always thrived with effort, even where I have not liked something, and with that, I have almost always been in the kind of prime physical health where heat, walking and all wouldn't bother me too much. My nucleus is withering from a never-ending trail of work and commitments. After these French classes finish, we are straight into another exam session, where I expect the majority of my students from this Spring will be examined, and then into the new term. My next break, therefore, I think/hope will come at Christmas. More than that, however, I miss so much the people who breathe life into me. Possibilities for visits and so forth are so few and far between; I have had to sacrifice so much more to come here than I ever imagined, and the waves are carrying me onto different, older, wearier and sadder tides. It may sound foolish enough, but if I follow this allusion to my one of my favourite Disney efforts: Peter Pan. With the coil of friends around me, I became a kind of Tinkerbell: in flight, energetic, and ready to take the blast on the one hand; slightly paranoid, moody, and over-protective on the other. Following Hook's disguising a bomb as a present, and Tinkerbell taking the blast, Peter pleads for her light not to go out. Am am I fading Tinkerbell, or just a lost boy? I am just left to try, and to hope. I was scuttling in with my eyes squinted and my head low with the rain this morning, but I stopped to notice that the Philosophes building, where most English teaching takes place, and where the English library (amongst others) is located, was cordoned off, and a plain notice about a fire was on the main door. I had to wait until I returned home to check email and find out more. This fire was a very serious one. As far as we have been told, most of the libraries in there have perished, as well as the main upstairs lecture theatre. We do not yet know the fate of the English library. It is one thing losing a hard drive and a certain amount of digital music on a personal level, and another to lose centuries worth of books. My heart already goes out to the German department, and whoever else has, and will be, affected. The thought of our library being lost is already too numbing to contemplate. Current Mood: drained Current Music: Jon Parr: St Elmo's Fire

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April 6th, 2008

08:00 pm - One of the Three There we go! I presented alongside the world-renowned Professors Anthony Edwards and Gary Taylor. Nerve-wracking, but fantastic. The journey to Fribourg on the top deck of the double-tier train was absolutely stunning. Some of us were still reading bits and pieces from the large volume or 'reader' of preparatory material for the workshops, which frustratingly we didn't seem to need during the conference. I'm not quite sure if I am in any position to speak on whether the conference actually worked. We have two esteemed textual scholars and editors: one for Medieval studies, and one for Shakespeare (for the purposes of the conference, 'Early Modern'), and we were asked to submit detailed questions one month in advance on our subject area to make the most of their knowledge. For the first, long afternoon session, the Medievalists amongst the conference attendees one by one proposed their questions, and received answers of varying quality and effort, in turn pretty much alienating everybody else. For this lip-pursing introduction to conference proceedings, the evening was a real pleasure. The hotel we were using was absolutely splendid. The one awkwardness I had beforehand was, being the only male from Geneva who was staying over, it had been harder to secure a room share. I had only met (Dr.) Marco Nievergelt once before, briefly, in the Autumn semester, and he had kindly agreed to join me, but he was too ill to attend, which left the unfortunate privilege of a magnificent double room to one's own. Likewise, the conference dinner was lovely for all of us. Some went on for a drink or two down in Fribourg. My supervisor was in great spirits, and so I joined for several, before heading back to fulfil the compulsive habit of making small changes in my paper, which I had done every night since the practice run-through in front of colleagues two weeks' prior. The second day was quite eventful. We begin with a session from Professor Taylor, which I actually quite enjoyed. Certainly, editing is a fine theoretical and practical skill and in some ways almost a completely difference vocational direction to take in academia. The presentation reminded me of the Bristol's 'Insight Into Media': essentially an insight into, and a promotion of, editing. It is always useful, too, to hear of stories and dealings with academic presses from some of the most experienced in the business. At least this seemed better prepared and less slap-dash than the previous day. I think the most noticeable thing, however, was what I learnt about my supervisor, as Professor Erne stepped in to try and rescue procedures back to student level. Lukas is a perfect captain; he assumes leadership when it is needed, in a considered and tactful way. He is a natural supervisor, in so far as he relates to students very well, and understands the needs of students when the situation threatens to disregard them. The two esteemed professors did not seem to carry the same rapports: not that I would accuse any kind of intellectual elitism, but I just could not imagine them supervising, remembering (PhD) students' names, and certainly not working with them in the close-knit way that happens here. Without doubt a good relationship with one's supervisor is a vital component of a successful postgraduate experience. The second, closing afternoon, was the public-conference, the four papers. Unfortunately, some of the arrangements were hit-and-miss. We did not allow long enough for lunch: some missed out on dessert, those fortunate to see it had a minute or less, and it meant a rush back to the venue, especially for me, involved in the first session. The room at Fribourg was now wider populated with professors, honarary professors, other spectators; many folk I didn't recognise. I was grateful to introduce myself to Prof. Neil Forsyth, who I had been wanting to meet for some time, and reintroduce myself to Prof. Richard Waswo, a big personality often visiting in Geneva [...] Prof. Edwards had given his paper sitting; unconventional, it seemed to me, and which caused him some problems. I could not help an internal sigh of relief. How could I hope to follow a paper by an esteemed professor which went flawlessly? Now, I would not have to. The problem was, as it moved to me, there was no apparatus at all for me to stand. Not wanting to sit at any cost, I had no choice but to stand leaning heavily on the forward table to read the relatively small font of my script. Thankfully, I think I was prepared as I might have been, and the paper went, thankfully, remarkably smoothly except for one instance where I had made a stupid alteration in a thin red pen, where I had to look much closer. Needless to say, for the relief of making the best of it, and a reasonable delivery, I confess to being marginally less amused when the stand/pulpit/apparatus appeared during the break in preparation for the final two papers. What was always going to be nervous ground was the question-period. Fellow speaker Susie (Gebhardt) cleverly threw me off guard slightly by asking if I could distinguish between two synonymic terms I had used, one more prominently than the other: the private manuscript and the 'non-text'. While they are essentially the same, I used the term 'non-text' to distinguish the importance of the private document/letter/poem beyond the individual: to the public, to the marketplace of print, and to readers now. What is private to the individual is not known about elsewhere, and therefore the knowledge, or the product, simply does not exist. The term is meant to emphasise now the importance of documents which, to all intents and purposes, did not exist in any sense in any public sphere. I was then targetted for a few points by another prominent figure within the room, who firstly baffled me by nit-picking at something I did not say (so much so that I could not respond). I was then asked by the same figure where Marvell's satires fit into this. To this, I think, ironically on par with my topic area, I was able to better explain what I could not say rather than what I could. The majority of Marvell's satire arrives later in his career. My existing research did not look into this too much, and my talk expressly covered the early stages of Marvell's poetic career. To that extent, my overall argument is based chronologically; different features relating to privacy occur at different points, and I was not in a good position to try and short-cut straight down the line. With Marvell's satires, certainly, we get the prominent issue of 'anonymity', which also has to play a part. In that sense, naturally, the document becomes available, but the author's identity, wherever possible, remains private. Unfortunately, that did not come to mind: the question was phrased looking for more evidence from me. To that, I was at least able to fill in the gap in my paper, which involves one of Marvell's earliest poems, and a private poem, a satire on Flecknoe. Whilst at that stage Marvell was happy (enough) to publish commendatory poems or elegies of praise, even if there are signs of discomfort within the writing, that the rather savagely comic Flecknoe poem remains private does seem to present the early principle that if there is nothing praiseworthy, the work will remain close to Marvell's chest. To that answer, I at least received a compliment of a 'quite good paper', which actually gave me quite a thrill. I remember getting a pat on the back from Prof. Waswo as I returned to my spot after the break: "you'll cope with the satires, no problem". True to form with everything observed at the conference, as well as receiving some great feedback from other attendees at the conference, my supervisor gave some terrific help the following week. Lukas had spoken with Prof. Spurr about the question of evidence. This is something I need to think about academically to take my existing definitions of the concept of privacy to the next level with regards to how I relate it to literature. Whilst the pressure was there to produce evidence, it should have been recognised, Lukas suggested, that I am creating hypothesis, in a sense, from lack of or the absence of evidence. I was recommended an essay by Michael Bristol called 'How Good Does Evidence Have to Be' in a collection of essays titled Textual and Theatrical Shakespeare: such references I would never hope to stumble across accidentally. Now, as this short review comes several months after the conference, I must move on and anticipate the next 'first's: first review, first chapter, first main publication. Much to do, and much, beyond French, to be excited about.

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March 13th, 2008

05:00 pm - Week 4: Going Public With Praise - Marvell and Royalism Primary Reading 'An Elegy Upon the Death of My Lord Francis Villiers', 'To His Noble Friend Mr Richard Lovelace, Upon His Poems', Upon the Death of Lord Hastings'. Secondary Reading James Loxley, 'Prepar'd at Last to Strike in with the Tyde? Andrew Marvell and Royalist. Verse’, The Seventeenth Century, 10 (1995), 39-62. *Also* Compulsory viewing of Blood on Our Hands Further Reading John McWilliams, '"A Storm of Lamentations Writ": Lachrymae Musarum and Royalist Culture after the Civil War, Yearbook of English Studies, 33 (2003), 273-289. Randy Robertson, 'Lucasta and Civil War Censorship, Studies in Philology, 103.4 (2006), 465-498. Sharon Achinstein, 'Texts in Conflict: The Press and the Civil War', in N. H. Keeble (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Writing of the English Revolution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), pp. 50-68. In previous weeks we have established through his lyric poetry that Marvell is an elusive and enigmatic writer who resists labels and classifications. Marvell is in many ways a poet of crossovers, which makes entirely New Critical (close reading / words alone) or New Historical (wholly contextualised) readings increasingly difficult. Many of his lyric poems appear to carry a political edge, fusing the boundary between the lyrical and distant from the political and the engaged. He portrays a kind of innocence, from the Drop of Dew to the Nymph, with an underlying strange or contorted edge of experience. We move from the distant subject (the dewdrop, the coronet) to the personal subject (which becomes up-close enough to stretch comfortable boundaries). Marvell is a poet who uses traditions of the past and foresees the future. Thus, in one sense, we have a poetry that transcends time and space. Yet we cannot ignore background detail and biography in understanding more, contextualising our way through the poised language and ambivalence. The dual approach, close reading and contextual reading, is building a tension which comes to the surface in Week 5. Today we moved on to what may be considered early political verse. The first immediate complication, when viewing Marvell's career as a whole, is that these poems appear to be Royalist aligned, which differs from his later allegiances. The second is that these poems were published, which is contrary to most of the rest of his verse. The objective, dealing with these complications, was to think about the purpose of these poems on the one hand, and to think about the role of printing and book production in this antagonistic literary culture on the other, and finding connections between the two before making up our own minds about the true intentions of these poems. The documentary, as well as a basic timeline for the English Civil War, served to illustrate the rise of printing presses and the prominence of the role of print in the Civil War. Prof. Ronald Hutton described it as a 'propaganda war'. With the arrest of Archbishop Laud, the King's ally and chief censor, the end of censorship saw a deluge in the number of pamphlets, newsbooks and propaganda material. Reporting of domestic news had been illegal under Laud, and now, through oral and printed means, reports could spread news and events; thus the mainstream newspaper was born. This encouraged an oppositional or adversarian politics through the press - propaganda was used to encourage people to join one cause or the other, or else to scare them into doing so. Additionally, the boundaries between what was public and what was private were breached in a number of high-profile incidents. Firstly, following a decade of 'Personal Rule' under Charles I without consulting his Parliament and making private decisions, Parliament drew up a list of grievances against the King and his advisors, titled 'The Grand Remonstrance'. This would normally have been an entirely private communique with the King, but under his theological protection of Divine Right, the King decided not to respond, and so Parliament took this to the printing presses, where it spread quickly around the country. Secondly, in 1645, a box of the King's private letters to Henrietta Maria were intercepted by Parliamentary forces, and soon became a public propaganda exercise. The reaction was an explosive one. Charles talked about negotiations with Catholic forces in Ireland and France, and thus was revealed as conniving, hypocritical, and, Prof. Joad Raymond notes, it took the shine of monarchy altogether. The background context to political verse of this period is huge and wide ranging. Let us think about the first complication: royalism. One of the early observations was that this small selection are all occasional poems, written for an event concerning a specific individual. To that extent, one does not need to assume any greater connection between Marvell and royalism than the royalist subjects of the poems. Some critics (notably Annabel Patterson) take pains to stress the lack of connection to royalism, either through certain poems being wrongly attributed to Marvell, or through verse which is personal rather than reflective of any royalist politics. The very existence of these poems might indicate that whatever his allegiances were at any stage of this tumultuous period, if they were decided at all, these poems likely show a sympathy to a number of royalist figures. Marvell had known Villiers and Lovelace quite well, and if he did not personally know Hastings, his familiarity with royalist collaborator Brome provided the connection. One question to consider is whether the occasional nature of these poems could dilute any royalist connection as entirely personal rather than political. On the other hand, an prominent expert of royalist verse, James Loxley (author of Royalism and Poetry in the English Civil Wars, 1997), demonstrates in his Marvell essay the rich tapestry of connections to a much wider body of royalist verse in these poems we are considering. On the surface, to the unfamiliar reader, there are few indicators of royalist semiotics in this poems. With more investigation, it is perhaps more difficult to argue against Marvell's royalism at this stage. From this, we think about the second complication: publication. These three poems from Marvell's early career are the first and last to be published for a number of years. Looking at Marvell's poetic career, publication is a distinct rarity. We may see in these poems, therefore, reasons why Marvell has chosen for them to be published, or, on the other hand, he may demonstrate why he subsequently goes private. Does his choice to publish only these occasional poems of that period make it clear that his allegiances are only personal? Or, as is the case often with Marvell, are these poems about more than they appear to be? When we think a little more about the circumstances behind the volumes in which the poems appeared, more possibilities emerge. The dedicatory poem on Lovelace's Lucasta has a blast at 'barbèd censurers', with a grim view of the role of censors and the prominence of censorship in the publication of material (see Randy Robertson). Similarly, he remarks about 'swarms of insects', including 'word-peckers, paper-rats, book-scorpions', said to be 'of wit corrupted'. These terms could certainly refer to the deplored censors, but they could also equally apply to a rising tide of savage critics and bad writers starting to flood the profession. With this revolution of print culture, quality was descending into quantity, and each new publication was fighting harder to be read. There is little doubt that the poem on Lovelace shows a deep admiration for the man, but there is near equal importance on the state of the writing profession with censorship and publication both hinted at as flawed processes. The Hastings poem, on the other hand, is extremely dense in reference and allusion, making it seem remarkably impersonal. If this is not a personal poem in the same vein as the other two, was this written and published to mark royalist allegiances, or, again, for other purposes? This poem is certainly an intellectual exercise of some description, which seems slightly more wooden and uncomfortable than the other poems, even the Villiers elegy with its more partisan ending. Marvell repeats here the idea of giving the 'bays', an award for poetic prowess, suggesting on the one hand that he has this award or the status to offer it elsewhere, and on the other that his status was elevated by giving it rather than wearing it (Lovelace, 8). This strange confidence underpinned by self-consciousness, if we think it that, is upheld by what we may have recognised in Marvell's private verse so far. 'The Coronet', as an example, was only fit for the feet and not the head. Within these volumes, Marvell's verse would lie between many of the esteemed poets of the age, and with such a self-critical impulse, there is a sense of needing to impress, especially in this Hastings elegy. John McWilliams discusses in his essay on Lachrymae Musarum how Marvell's poem is as much about the writing of elegy as it is on Hastings himself - setting a standard for proper grief. The comment or critique here is a wider one: as much about writers fashioning themselves for the wrong purposes. Some, such as Robert Herrick, were strong advocates for publishing their work, which surely demonstrated through Marvell's eyes a confidence in one's own ability which he does not necessarily hold. For some kind of conclusion to Week 4: these poems hold many different interpretations, from personal dedications, to political allegiances, to comments on the act of writing and the processes involved in publication. Perhaps they provide suggestions as to why Marvell chose to publish these poems but so very few afterwards. Certainly the purpose behind these poems, the allegiances to people or party shown within them, and the comments that are made about aspects of writing are as big a dilemma for us as publishing these poems was for Marvell. Current Mood: Behind! Current Music: Goldfrapp: Time Out From the World

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March 4th, 2008

02:00 pm - Week 2: Marvell's Early Lyrics Primary Reading 'On A Drop of Dew', 'The Coronet', 'The Fair Singer', 'The Definition of Love'. Secondary Reading Donald Friedman, 'Andrew Marvell', in Thomas N. Corns (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to English Poetry, Donne to Marvell (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), pp. 275-303. Further Reading Derek Hirst and Steven Zwicker, ‘Eros and Abuse: Imagining Andrew Marvell’, ELH, 74 (2007), 371-395. Louis Martz, 'Andrew Marvell: The Mind's Happiness', in Harold Bloom (ed.), Andrew Marvell (New York: Chelsea House, 1988), pp. 49-75. Don Parry Norford, 'Microcosm and Macrocosm in Seventeenth-Century Literature', Journal of the History of Ideas, 38.3 (1977), 409-428. Rosalie Colie, "My Ecchoing Song": Marvell's Poetry of Criticism (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1970). We examined a number of difficult lyric poems, the sort that have seen Marvell once comfortably labelled as a 'metaphysical' poet. After re-establishing the aims and objectives of the course as a whole, we shared some wide observations about this collection for week 2, before the class split into smaller groups and focussed more closely on individual poems. We came to recognize Marvell's very acute attention to form and detail (prosody), and how it helps to shape meaning. The drop of dew, and the crown of 'The Coronet', for instance, are both self-contained and enclosed entities, and Marvell's intricate form is self-aware (through syntax on the one hand, attention to words like 'frame' on the other) of its pictoral or representational qualities. Alternatively, we consider 'The Definition of Love', like 'The Coronet', as a kind of palinode poem - a specific response to something that already exists. The most likely target for Marvell's 'Definition' is John Donne's 'A Valediction, Forbidding Mourning', which uses a conceit of lovers as twin-compasses (for drawing circles). It is difficult to work out Marvell's tone here, we concede. But it is likely, with Marvell's brand of wit, that he is mocking this kind of poetry. He constructs, as Friedman says in his essay 'a geometry of passion', but one which, through Ptolemaic theory (of spheres equalling perfection), deliberately does not work. This kind of reading enabled us to think about the lyric properties of Marvell's verse. Equally, choosing to beyond beyond the surface, many other things are found. Through the pretence of the Petrarchan opening, we soon find a language of engagement, from war to death to torture, in 'The Fair Singer' (conquest, enemy, death, fatal, slave, fetters, fighting, resistance etc.). Both this, and the Definition, could be read in a similar way to 'To His Coy Mistress'. There is something distinctively odd, impersonal and distant about the figure of attraction, leaving an avenue to question sexuality, experience and so forth. Yet all three poems seem to be either inverting or complicating the genre or else mocking their major philosophical or literary influences. Additionally, the example was most obvious in the language of 'The Fair Singer', but there remains the option of reading these lyric poems politically - bringing in the effects of war and revolution. The figure of the Fair Singer could equally be a dominatrix or a military commander. Alternatively, we take a poem such as 'On a Drop of Dew', a subject almost as far removed from war as possible, and *still* the problems remain. The dewdrop, on Earth, is in 'a heaven less'. It trembles and shakes about growing more impure the longer it remains on Earth. Why is it desperate to return? What is so desperately wrong with Earth? These are questions which temptingly surround the poem without quite breaking the surface. However, this does fuel the kind of narrative that runs in and between these lyric poems. Was Marvell trying and failing to escape from issues surrounding war and revolution; or, was he consciously bringing these 'realistic' subjects into the kinds of poetic genres where they are normally excluded? Further connections found in these poems are connections to, and echoes of, Royalist poets and friends of the time (relates to week 4 onwards), which might complicate the political shadow undermining these lyrics. Underneath, however, lies the problem that Marvell was largely a private man, who wrote little of his work with the intention of publishing it. Publication and distribution of work was a key issue of the time, with cheap print becoming a thriving business, and everyone realising the power of print - perhaps when popular media (and certainly the newspaper) was born (Part 1 of the Documentary and Week 4). 'The Coronet' shows a clear sign of Marvell's own self-critical impulse. The intricate structure of the poem suggests that it is representative of the crown he describes, and yet this is said to be only fit for the feet, and not for its purpose; thus, we might conclude, he sees the poem as unfit for publication or readership. So, one might ask why Marvell writes this kind of verse at all. Is it a cathartic process - his own kind of self-soothing? Is it an intellectual exercise? After all, there is a strange lack of passion in these love poems, and they engage heavily in intellectual interests of the period: from the microcosm of the Dewdrop (Norford), to the Petrarchan tradition, to the [Neo]Platonic and Ptolemaic theory. Is he convincing himself to bring old traditions into the new world, and throw off the nostalgia of the Golden Age, of 'Halycon Days'? Perhaps, if we must try and describe it, we might encounter a 'poetry of judgement' (Friedman, 278). To conclude Week 2 - when the aim was to look at some early verse in the two-tier approach to reading, and to think about problems of classification - the parting thought was that Marvell certainly could be considered a poet of lyric verse, but that the reading of this verse is complicated by a number of factors: by the historical background, by the political or literary viewpoints of Marvell or his royalist acquaintances, or else by the engagements of war in the 1640s. Current Mood: pleased Current Music: Rackett: Resistance

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November 23rd, 2007

08:25 am - West End Longest ever professional/academic day this Thursday, I think. Left at 7:50am, arrived back home at 11:00pm. Overwhelmed with all sorts: really need to get caught up, with all manner of things. Current Mood: happy Current Music: Pet Shop Boys: West End Girls

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November 3rd, 2007

10:00 pm - Try As You May Last week was tough in terms of workload. I took the marking so very seriously, and thus emerged my first all-nighter to ensure that all was done. That Thursday's class seemed to go remarkably well for my slight haziness, and putting more of the talking in their hands seemed to fill the time so much cleaner. Following that, we were obliged to go and watch the Silent Hamlet, which was something of a disaster; even without the previous all-nighter and excursions, staying awake would have been a challenge. However, there was no immediate let-up, as a weekend home was to begin at 5am. The efficiency of Genevan public transport ended up saving my skin. The earliest feasible route would get me in the depths of the Aéroport train station for just before 6, leaving 20 minutes to get through to the terminal and checked in. A quicker route was possible, but unlikely, since the first bus to the airport leaves the train station at the very same minute that the one from Malagnou was to reach the same stop. The refreshing perfection that is transport here saw the very first bus arrive here at Malagnou two minutes early, where I was waiting, and arrived at the train station right behind the No. 10. So little was I expecting the possibility, that I was almost hesitant to leap on it. But there: 15 seconds rather than the expected 10 minutes later I was on the move, arriving at terminal level a little before the train would arrive. Then I realised a big problem. I expected the Swiss Airline to have a desk of its own, but instead it was shared with all manner of others with several cordoned lines of queue. The time ticked along, and I did not expect any announcements to save those destined to miss the close of any one check-in. Thankfully, the saving grace was rectified just in time. Geneva Airport encourages as many as possible to self-check-in, but luggage still has to be checked in. For this service there is normally a designated desk, but there was not that Friday morning, until, at 6:15, one was opened and half the queue in front of me disappeared. I checked in at closing time, a very relieved boy. I could not help being slightly nervous: I had not flown with a foreign national airline since SpanAir 10 years ago, which itself was horrible. But upstairs, past security, there was a ticket control manned by a charismatic London gentleman, who took a look at my passport, and addressed me by first name. Out and up the budget steps, I was a little taken aback by how small the RJ-85 plane was. I had an assigned seat tucked at the back, where it was quiet, and with a mixture of relief, enthusiasm and adrenalin running from the lack of sleep and travelling back home for the first time, and for the first time with a new airline. Everyone was most polite, it was beautifully quiet. Between trying to read Fay Weldon's Lives and Loves of a She-Devil, Swiss provided complimentary coffee, muffins and chocolates - a wonderful treat, and on arriving into the brilliantly located London City Airport, so efficient was the turnaround that I ended up joining London morning rush-hour transport to reach Kings Cross just under an hour ahead of time. The weekend was marked by a rare and enjoyable Saturday night out with my sister, which kind of reflected that new attitude one takes when confidence is above average and opportunity below average. Aside from that, the time passed peacefully and incident free. Despite the greater dislocation from four years ago, the 28th left me unmolested and otherwise at peace. The Saturday night was needed to prove to myself that I wasn't going to let the time of year strike me unnecessarily defensive. Monday was a long haul, including a double-booked seat on the train down, but at least timing was just perfect. Again, Genevan transport was very welcome, and having navigated around the problem of where to catch the bus back, I neatly mirrored the weekend by taking the last bus back to where I caught Friday's first. The problem with London being the hub of the majority of flights to Geneva, is that travelling up and back unsettles any relaxation. I woke later than planned on Tuesday, and discovered a problem for the upcoming week. There had been an email from Edinburgh: they are prepared to pass me, but in exchange for a hard-bound copy of the dissertation. Throughout the past week, trying to arrange for this to be done has been a problem. Lukas took me on Tuesday to the print service at the Philosophes building, but they could not help. He therefore arranged for some help for me on two counts. Firstly, Ancilla took me on Wednesday to a State building by Stand to see about my wages. They informed us that it was to be organised by post, and printed me off a breakdown of what I should be expecting. Back from that, a fleeting visit to the WRGFM classifieds, which has proved a disappointment of late, saw a property which seemed very promising; so I dropped off an email more in hope than expectation. However, a reply came within a few hours, asking for a date for a possible visit, and while it seemed a little pushy, I suggested that same evening, knowing that Emma could possibly come along as well in case the woman was more comfortable with French than English, and also because otherwise it would be lynched by somebody else. The flat turned out to be lovely, a good size, in a good location, with a very nice landlord. The objective was to flee back as soon as possible and email an acceptance - and then wait with baited breath for a response. I overslept also on Thursday, making it just in time for the B.D.D. class. I enjoyed the class, and felt very awake for it, which was a good sign. Preparing for the afternoon class seemed all in hand: everyone had their parts, as the previous week, and there were to be some sample passages for the class to prepare during the composition hour. The class seemed to go well, in terms of completeness, although we did run slightly overtime, which I was particularly conscious of having already promised that I wouldn't do that again. I just did not want to let that class go, given how weak everyone seemed with the sample passages, and that being the last time together before the exam. Afterwards, there was something I was not expecting. I was kept behind for a discussion which lasted over an hour. The student in question is considering leaving the class, and there were some strongly worded, although well-intended, complaints about my performance. I made it clear at the beginning that I welcome all feedback at any time, and so there are no qualms with honesty, and due to a certain measure of confidentiality I mention no details. The complaints are opinion, and, to a degree, controversial, but it struck a deep nerve of vulnerability. I crawled along to what remained of the film cycle afterwards just to have company and take my mind off it all. If I have learnt anything from past experience, it is about not overreacting, and I am at least proud that I have not done so. The next step is to talk with my supervisor and clear the air if that is possible this upcoming week. Friday culminated a number of frustrations really. I did not know what to say or do about the previous evening's disappointment. Ancilla ventured out with me for the second time this week, over to the beautiful Uni-Mail, once again to investigate about the thesis binding. Edinburgh had followed up that exchange email with another about graduation. Because the process is running behind, I need to provide forms relating to graduation at the end of this month. At this point, I realised what robbing bastards they really are. Having paid £4,200 in fees for a poor research methods course and shockingly little contact time, including £100 to the Department which they would not let me touch for ventures to the British Library, Edinburgh are looking to extract what more they can. They are offering to prepare the thesis for £40, which is almost double what Newcastle University Print Service would charge, and they also want £40 for the graduation certificate, which I think is scandalous. Out of principle, I do not want to get my thesis bound there. Why they need a hard-bound copy of an MSc Dissertation, I have no idea, but the complication is that they want the declaration page signed - so I have to have contact with this dissertation before it is sent. My Love very kindly tried the University of London Print Service, who will not entertain it; I tried Essex (in terms of places reachable from London), who apologised that the service is only for their own students. My list of options grows thin, and time is pressing given that I need this Masters certificate to enrol as a student here, which I have not yet been able to do. The glimmer of hope is that I did get the flat, from December to April, which is quite a plus, and I also braved my French to the Post Office to get paid. For 10 minutes, I was carrying around the most amount of money I ever have before, in the highest denominations I have ever seen. This makes things possible, and stops the long running panic. With the exam this week, there is no preparation for the class - only an intense period of marking afterwards. Therefore, tasks ahead include: firstly, the Noted meeting, and working on the Knightmare article, with research related to that. Secondly, there is my own research, which needs kick-starting, including two different extracts. Thirdly, related to this, I need to work on an application to S.A.U.T.E, and a more specific abstract to present at the Fribourg Origins Conference next year. Finally, I need to find a way to get this dissertation hard bound to UK standards. I may have to back down to Edinburgh's offer, providing that they won't make me travel all that way just to sign a page, given that they have two comb-bound copies with that already. Still, variety is a spice of life: it will be a break from Hamlet, at least until Thursday afternoon, and then we move onto poetry next week. Current Mood: optimistic Current Music: Rhydian Roberts: Phantom of the Opera [X Factor]

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October 24th, 2007

08:00 pm - Lives and Loves, and Essays Lives and Loves of a She-Devil was this Tuesday's screening; half way between the Revenge Tragedy and Body Dysmorphia courses. Wednesday evening is my least favourite of the week. Tonight, I'm just slightly on the negative side of things: slightly frustrated, slightly demoralised, fairly tired. Whilst my marking situation will not be resolved without an all-nighter, the first of the Genevan reign, I took time out to go to a lecture with Emma, Ioanna (assistante in Medieval Literature), and Prof. Erne on Paradise Lost ... in French. When it was mentioned, at around 4 this afternoon, the persuasion for me to come was that if I knew P.L. then I would more than likely grasp the concept of the lecture; that academic discourse in French has many similarities to English, exposure would be helpful, etc. etc. 70 minutes of lecture preceded to inform me that I understood the words 'Milton', 'Spenser', 'Faerie Queen', and besides that a single full sentence of the whole lecture. If this is the kind of level I am expected to follow now, with an estranged AS Level from over 6 years ago, there is little hope for me passing my PhD French oral in a year's time. It is worrying: Emma states that she is by no means a natural linguist, despite now knowing French, Italian and some Spanish. There is no way that I am a natural linguist: beyond GCSE I could not cope, and of course, GCSE quality language will get you nowhere fast. Are some of us predisposed to acquiring further languages? Yes, I have only been here a month, but even if there are people who acquire language simply from being immersed in it, I honestly do not believe that I am one of them either. Anyhow, writing here is distracting me from marking - that is, fifteen essays on a passage of Hamlet, many of which require several re-reads, heavy annotation, and then 1-2 pages of written feedback. This is been a really dense challenge; I have been marking for 5 1/2 days solid, and just cannot process things any faster. I still have 3 to do, almost all the feedback to write, the preparation for tomorrow morning's BDD class, and of course, preparation for my own class. I know I'm giving each essay more attention than I should - but that is because I think the first one deserves the most detailed marking possible in advance of the first exam, and of course I am very protective of my students passing; to anyone who has asked, I have explained this and they have agreed that sounds like the best plan - that is therefore what I must achieve for every student before the class tomorrow. To that extent, I sent them all a grovelling apology two days ago for over-running several times and the class not going very well; one month in, and through my eyes I am already digging a small pit. Where does the average, reasonable person just stop and say "I can't manage this on time - I will find the most reasonable way around it"? That has never been an option. But will my efforts, if they are the very least required of me as a course leader, or a pseudo-heroic dedication to my students, go rewarded in any way? It's hard to tell. "Let go" I've been told once or twice. It is not our personal responsibility to shepherd everyone to a pass - such a feat may be impossible. In time, I may grow academic-wise to this, but it is impossible at this stage to discount anybody. I try to remind myself adamantly of this when my gasps of adoration when I first flicked through the essays have become disgruntled - perhaps that is the fallout from having a class size 1 1/2 times the average. Today has felt as though I have somehow subconsciously organised the pile to leave some of the worst at the end. Of course, once I gave the first essay the deepest attention and most thorough review, this must now be replicated for all of the others, but I hope that during the peer-review session tomorrow, I will feel reinvigorated by revisiting some of the best essays, which are an absolute pleasure to read. Efforts... an all-nighter might do me good. Waking on a Thursday is always difficult, and I need something to make sure I sleep very promptly on Thursday evening given the 5am departure on Friday morning. But I confess to feeling guilty about my wage: that part is still sinking in, and I must do what I have to do to earn my over-generous keep. This said, because my work permit has failed to arrive in over four weeks, it is now impossible to get paid for October through the normal channels. I agreed to come over a week early and work unpaid at my own cost to help smooth the disruption to the semester timetable, and with the sensible idea that it should help with completing the admin in time for my first installment in October. Now this has backfired, and I am left either with the slippery slope of a manual pay-slip at the secretariat (and how on earth can I fill that out? I've spent an average of 10 hours here every weekday since I've arrived; nobody is going to believe that), or surviving on what I have left. I have little choice but to cushion myself with more CHF at the weekend, and hope that be enough. Martin has people coming to stay in a few weeks, and I understood the subtle hint to voluntarily vacate my room, but without my wage, I will not be able to afford to move. Tricky times: all just a little frustrating. Once I'm on the GNER train on Friday, trying to read Fay Weldon's novel in three hours, that will be better. "Take this from this if this be otherwise": If the Mirror brings Contentment, then I am happy. Plus, got my first conference appointment for Marvell in April. Scary, but awesome. Current Mood: Marking Overload Current Music: Syrian: Alien Nation

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October 16th, 2007

08:30 pm - Carrie I am not really writing here in any kind of sequence or order - probably because without the internet at home and little privacy to sit and think, nor less to write, there is little to scoop out of the air about how the experience has been so far. As ever, I just hope for time to pause a little and help me catch up. One of the features of this term has been a number of cycles of films that I'm able to go and watch that are shown by different course convenors in the Bastion building on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Tonight's film, for the Revenge Tragedy course, was Carrie (1976), and because this is the month, it touched a couple of raw nerves. Aside from that, I was made to think today about whether a certain awkwardness in here is just down to lack of French - but of course I know it is not. I am not the only one to suffer for a lack of social integration for crucial periods, and just turning back the clock, it is easy to cuddle up to the idea of being victimised - because of certain events, because of the way I grew up, because of the special opportunities I have had (Prefects' Ball; Freshers' Ball; Falstaff Ball; Wills Hall Ball; Graduation), all of which I have turned down, pretty much automatically. How do we deal with this inclination of turning everything down automatically; shying away without even thinking about it? Is there an extrovert inside even the most introverted person? I talked this weekend about a 'victim card', only comfortable in ever using such a term insofar as I feel myself playing it with Spanish Train ease: I would hope it was not the Joker. One would think to comfort oneself in a zone where we belong and are safe, and yet it may be the very inhibitions of such a zone which cause the wider problems. Four years ago, not long after starting at Bristol, when I was really scared of what that October day would bring, I know I was asking similar questions: why have I forced myself 300 miles from home - if I had to be a student, were there not easier and more comfortable ways? Of course, the same question now is multiplied many times over. I'm here with a 2:1 and probably a scraped pass at MSc level (compared to Emma, with a 1st and a Distinction, respectively) because apparently I have shown how much I want it. The point is: Bristol brought me out of my shell to a point, but after first year, I knew that I was still very heavily reliant. The belief I had was largely built of the strength I was given by others. I've dived now into a foreign pond, an alien society, which is really testing every ability to be wholly independent and to hold myself together. I want to learn how to leave the victim of the past behind; to be strong for the present and for the future; to have a confidence to bring to myself, my friends and my lover; to carpe diem - to learn to take experiences while they are there and not to shy away; to come home by choice and not because I am running scared. Early last month I was terrified, but there were some reserves - so much to say 'This IS now, more than a dream, but no longer a choice', or to coin the old favourite 'The only way is onwards, there is no turning back'. I am very pleased with how it has gone so far. This is a journey that transcends the domestic study scene - and the path to self-discovery is ever work in progress. To the English, I am happy to be Swiss; to the Swiss, I am proud to be English; and there is a reality that gives me an entire sense of place somewhere between the two. And I am happy to come home often, and share everything that is good. Current Mood: thoughtful Current Music: Carrie's Theme

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September 19th, 2007

03:30 pm - A Valediction: Of Caledonia This time last year, I travelled up to Edinburgh four days out of five during Freshers' Week for the decidedly poor Research Methods Course. This is just to mark my final trip. I am going to attempt once more to say goodbye. Owing to the generous allowance for researchers here, I had amassed the full quota of 25 for most of the second half of the year. Minus the small handful I returned on the 24th, there remained 21 books to return today, including the Passions of the Renaissance anthology and the Cambridge History of Early Modern English Literature, which made for quite a burden to carry up the valley. The library prefers returned books to be left in a window shelf of a particular section at the front during open hours, and there was amusement at almost boarding them in single-handedly. There was also a £7.00 fine for my sins, which was declared to the librarian as 'the last task' - reminiscent of the final episode of Knightmare, and the library's aesthetics are presently reminiscent of a dungeon. A strange day: I really did not know quite what to do with myself. It was something of a shock to see the place awash with students, many of whom were new, after the summer of relative tranquility. The library has been the only place of belonging there this year, and it is not the building of inspiration. Nevertheless, the main intention was to say farewell to the two tutors who have helped me this year: Dr. Fox, and, above all, Dr. J.L. Unfortunately, I'm guessing that with the arrival of mass numbers of students, all lecturers fled for their lives. That said, it does remind me of a certain type of bank. Returning to this several weeks on, I have no idea what I meant by this sentence, but I will leave it there to respect the moment. In contrast to the disturbingly peaceful Bristo Square, there have hundreds of people outside and around the main areas, but once up the flights of the David Hume Tower, the corridors of the English Department were quiet and eerily deserted. I had been told that I should be able to catch Dr. Loxley between 1 and 2 in his office. I headed up for 1:20, but there was nobody there. After waiting twenty minutes, browsing through a copy of the dissertation which I had brought for him, I knew it was a thankless task. The copy was propped up against his door, and that was the inauspicious farewell to the David Hume Tower, which holds the best views of Edinburgh, to Andrew's camera philosophy *grins* (That said, I argue for the top of the News Steps) All would not be lost - Dr. Fox held his office hours between 2 and 4 that afternoon, so shortly after that period began I went back into the William Robertson building for the first time in months. Rather unnervingly, the office next door to Dr. Fox's was being stripped of furniture, and the member of staff in question had been relocated. Trying to manoeuvre around this happening, Dr. Fox was not there. So, back to the library - where I picked up a message from Emma in Geneva, and replied asking a few questions, particularly relating to the opportunity to head back to the UK on occasion. Half-amusingly, I mentioned what I was doing, and signed off saying that I was going to have one last try. Back to the William Robertson building at about 3:30, but still no sign. What can be made of this, I'm not sure, and rather sadly anticlimactic that nobody was around. So farewell to Edinburgh, (along the customary mile of George Square, Bristo Square, King George IV Bridge, past The National Library, down the (Good) News Steps and across the bypass into the Station) was not about people, but about a snapshot of experience, a gateway to another future, a mistake meant to happen, and a time memorably forgettable, or forgettably memorable. Current Mood: contemplative Current Music: Joseph McManners: In Dreams (Howard Shore)

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September 6th, 2007

10:30 pm - Belonging I hope to rewrite this when conditions are more favourable I was comfortable. That is, after all, why almost everything about this position has passed me by - somewhat unnoticed and somewhat unacknowledged. I haven't even mentioned anything here about finishing, no great melodrama of old regarding the two fully sleepless nights beforehand to get the piece submitted, the impossible catching of the train yet again to get me to Edinburgh. Above all, I knew what I was doing, I must enjoy my time at home enough, I had enough of a comfort zone. The Departmental meeting here in Geneva yesterday brought me into the world of academic teaching. The system is confusing, and there's going to be many strange customs to learn. Wandering around this morning, having nowhere else to go, this head just filled with doubts. I'm not sure I'm going to be able to do this - I'm not sure I can trust myself to look after myself properly. I'm bad enough in the UK sometimes, but I walked along this Bank Holiday with little open, pitifully hungry and yet scared of looking a fool trying to buy a little something to keep me going. If I hadn't ended up meeting up with others for lunch, goodness knows what I'd have done. There is always a transition period, and I just pray it is one that unravels quickly; the sting in the tail was, thinking this morning, this is no longer an option - it is here, and here to stay. As I crossed a road this morning, I wondered if I would have been better off in the UK, living on bread and water, walking for miles to save pennies, scraping my way through as I've been used to. Still, there have been positives. Already, an opportunity may have opened up for a paper in Zurich in late September with the Oscar Wilde and dysmorphia work I've done before. Not that I think it can happen as it would be too far removed from the American Studies AGM, but it is one of the few confidence boosts I have had. Most of the books I will need are in the office now, which feels quite good. That will be my place of belonging for the first fair while. That's all I can think of to say for now. I am in a public room with two neighbours watching some DVD or other - concentration is not at its best. Needless to say, I feel a massive sense of relief at being able to come back to the UK tomorrow. Current Mood: nervous

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August 21st, 2007

07:15 pm - Enclosure Acts [cross-posted from bristolian_kam ~ in its selfish, vaguely study related context] From 20th August: Wired This word has far too many dark contexts. My flow of work, which hasn't been wonderful these past few days - I am running totally out of steam towards the end, was jittered this evening when my mum brought me some troubling news. She brought it as rumour, and with a few words and a few clicks I was able to confirm it outright. A guy from my old primary school class has hanged himself in the woodland behind my old estate, just a half-mile from here. To make the situation more troublesome - this boy was the ring-leader, the principal bully behind a truly torrid time at Primary School. It was in the numb state that my mum tried to remind me about 'making your life a misery'. Yes, I lived in fear of this smallish kid who knew violence well enough that bigger and stronger kids revolved around him, bigger and peaceful ones went to lengths to avoid him. The last time I saw him (or at least, I believed it to be him), he was serving at Brogans during a pitifully bad night out with friends from my old school during sixth form, and I would not go to the bar because I didn't want him to see me. It puts a lump in the throat to see the loving acknowledgments,and feel guilty because that is not the same person I had to know. It brings me back to my last year there and a trip back up to school after finishing one day with my mum after a particularly bad day, and my class teacher telling her that it was the worst class of boys they'd had in the 20 years to date. Perhaps I've gone regressive at how little of my Primary School days I really want to remember, and I did not want to come across him again - but for all the sadness at this happening, it is vacuumed out to just leave a hole, and perhaps a bigger one than I thought possible. I feel many sad things, but almost not the right ones - more for the circumstances maybe. I hope I find the solace in knowing that whoever it is, I would never wish that upon anyone. May C.R. find his peace. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- I am nervous about this piece. It's still touch and go, but more than it needs to be, because I know the thankless task of writing a 5,000 word piece on Marvell's 'The Garden' in a few days now more than ever before, and therefore I am writing with as much caution as I can allow. Essays on 'The Garden' date back 50/60 years on everything from Neo-Platonism to Neo-Stoicism to Cartesian intellectual influences, and there is no way I can engage with these at any level in 24 hours. Something tells me my chapter will best engage with the rest of the piece if I ignore these distractions (beyond the fact that they exist) as much as possible; yet another tells me the chapter will have no scholarly credibility (given the 'year' of study) if I do not try and engage the inner-debate on the public and private life I am claiming with these specialist philosophical readings. They all apply, that's the point: 'The Garden' is almost as multivalent as they come. Somehow to me, I am realistic here. Just why would Marvell write a private poem expressing his knowledge of Neo-everything, Descartes et al.? But in asking that, I know it going against things I've already declared - breaking tradition of public poetry in private. If Milton/Sidney/Spenser were to do these things, as would he, but not publish it. It seems more reasonable to use nature simply to exacerbate the inner-debate between wanting the private life, which is desirable (Katherine Philips; George Mackenzie) and yet not wanting it, because to have it is to have the guilt of otium (thus John Evelyn and Abraham Cowley). I wanted to hinge on a rich essay by Jonathan Crewe in Enclosure Acts, but there's already a fundamental difference in approach. He finds a misogyny in wanting male domination to resemble the lost kingship, but that implies the poem was written during the Interregnum when Cromwell ruled, and the influences bracketed above are coercing me to place the poem after the Restoration. I don't like going against critics; the saving grace is 'The Garden', it could represent anything. In the end, it's poetic genius, and Marvell has, paradoxically, in its openness, made it too private to ever really know. 'It just Is'! - That doesn't cut any mustard from A-Level, but then, I hardly endorsed myself in A-Level English. In other inconsequential news, I finally purchased my own copy of James Loxley's Royalism and Poetry in the English Civil Wars ~ it rarely ever appears at an affordable price, so I snapped up an affordable copy from Amazon US, and it has arrived just in time to have it signed. It contains the original dustjacket, which I'd never seen before, and is quite cool, and, annoying but interestingly, the opening page is labelled - it looks like Scott Paul Gordon - and the last thing of his I read was a review of Patricia Spacks' book - on Privacy. What goes around, comes around... the world. Current Mood: Stumbling Over the Line Current Music: Ryan Farish: Sing to You

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August 14th, 2007

03:30 pm - Would You Late? Goodness me - today almost proved disastrous. This afternoon's meeting was arranged quite late - as in yesterday. This is a surprisingly busy time for academics, obviously this is the time of year when, free from teaching, academics complete areas of research and swap drafts, which keeps a heavy favour load if you want feedback on your own piece. It was important that it did happen though, for this will most likely be my last visit to Edinburgh prior to hand-in day. A shame, therefore, that I haven't been able to reacquaint with the expertise of Dr. Fox who was away most of last month, but obviously time is now such that I state 'God Speed the Plough' towards the finish [Andrew McRae]. Plus, I will have to do a lot of checking. The phrase from Adam Budd back in the early 'research classes' has proved useful: 'never assume anyone is as accurate and careful as you are'. There are a few references I have filtered from elsewhere that have proved a little wayward. Plus, so I've been told today, it's what external examiners can get picky about ~ but always something I've been careful about, so let's hope the work matches the fiercest glare. Yes, after a tiring day yesterday cracking most of chapter 3, I could not stay awake, as hard as I tried, and knew I would have to have a sleep. I would normally try to avoid it, for a three hour sleep often feels worse than going without, and duly, I overslept a little bit. I made it into Sunderland central 6 minutes ahead of my 9:30 Northern train (direct) to Newcastle, which would give 12 minutes to collect tickets and change. However, that was delayed this morning, and I knew straight away that I was in grave danger of missing my first ever form of transport. Indeed, I cut it fine from time to time, but I've never missed anything before. The problem was here that the mainline trains and Metros share the track for 3/4 of the route. Unfortunately, before that delayed direct train would arrive, a Metro was timetabled, and stopping around 15 times along the way, that takes exactly half an hour. Sharing the track, the direct train is stuck behind, and there is no way of avoiding the slower route or catching up the lost time. The Metro made good pace, and as I was gearing myself for the extortionate cost of an open replacement ticket, the Metro fleeted across its own Tyne Bridge, and I saw the GNER train slowing down on the parallel British Rail bridge. Never have I ran so quickly to get myself up onto the concourse, for I needed my tickets from the FastTicket machine before I could board. The signal had come to my rescue. As my tickets were being printed, I could hear the great Mallard grinding to a halt, and I managed to dodge the hoard of passengers disembarking at Newcastle to leap on just as the closing tone sounded. I keep thinking I'm out of shape, but even so, I'm quick enough on my feet when I need to be. The appointment was early today: 1pm. I heard Dr. Loxley down the corridor, talking about football, so a minute's eavesdropping did me no harm. Oh dear, would we have it, like his brother, he's a Spurs fan. "We'll not be talking about that..."; "Are you kidding? That's what I'm here to talk about"! I'm not sure whose office it was I poked my head around to register my arrival, but I overheard the word Satanta, the new non-contractual broadband football service, which seems a pretty damn good idea. That said, I must firstly see if it's applicable overseas - as a paid service, most likely, and secondly, if I'm going to get residential internet or whether I'm going to have to ask nicely about using my office machine on a weekend to listen to Sunderland playing. However it transpires, being in the Premiership is a big help in trying to find coverage. Yes: I had sent my second chapter by email, and received some feedback on it today in a really helpful discussion. I am still very nervous - there is so little time left to radically start changing anything, and indeed, even the small comments, which are structurally large comments, I will be fortunate to find the time to fix. Each chapter is taking longer than planned. The thinking time is the hardest, and once I pick up some momentum, I do not know when to stop. I have almost reached the word limit, and have a chapter and conclusion yet to come (although we also discussed where the major compressing might come). Yes, I do have problems with continuity and structure, certainly, and am learning even as I am writing - if only there was more time... the old adage. Perhaps because every chapter I have written is approaching the size of the Bristol dissertation - it's difficult enough holding 20-25 side chapters together individually without holding the grander narrative together immaculately as well. All part of the research process, certainly, and something, I'd like to think, that with more time I might have proved myself more secure of. That said, it's not a good weakness that I know I will be handing in with some of these deficiencies. I made it several times tougher for myself by taking a huge topic, splicing it into two in relation to Marvell when I could now, I realise, have chosen one. Plus, I have looked into how privacy was related to social, political, historical and literary contexts - which, the more I have expanded upon, has made writing the rest in light of these greater associations more difficult. Finally, I am discussing Marvell, a poet not as critically covered as Milton, but one who has become a popular figure. This makes it more difficult than I imagined, because where one writing a Milton dissertation at this stage could barely hope to use all the critical sources available, when there are about 20 major works on Marvell, and about another 20 noteworthy journal contributions, there is a pressure to write with the knowledge of all of these critical works, and to refer to them often. As Dr. Loxley pointed out, I am being selective in establishing ground that may, at points, run close to several other topical threads, but an awareness of the criticism should help me be allergic to that. Thus, my liberal footnoting is ballooning, just because I've felt I need the security of backing up the majority of what I've said. I hope I'll be able to get away with using MHRA, for I don't fancy trying to reformat the whole thing. I will have to be ultra careful; these pointers only get more important as the assessment of academic convention professionalism comes into play. I don't intend to count sources. I've been told that in every chapter I should cite anew, so that will unnecessarily bolster the count beyond sensible limits with regards the footnote/source debate. I will be sensible on this. It will not be too hard to count up per chapter all the rest of the words that are not source related. 8 days left, and an awful lot still to do: starting now. When I left the library earlier today, the alarm went off. Most unusual: it has never happened to me before. Everyone who has gone through either of the two gates during the brief alarm gets called back. I tried once again, and passed off unscathed. Quoth me to an American who passed behind me to moderate chuckle 'I must only be magnetic some of the time'. I must have switched from the lead head to shit-for-brains when I went to reattempt. It's late in the course, I was late in the morning, I had latté for lunch (as Kieran calls it, late); and, damn it, I would Late! Current Mood: Tired, Determined, Relieved Current Music: Rainer Bloss: Ford Galaxy, [aka Alphaville: Stranger than Dreams]

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