Steve Jacobi — Literature, Arts & Writing Studio
The Supplement, issue 6

The Supplement

Issue 6

14 pieces  ·  97 pages

Page 1

Introduction

supplementnoun 1 the handout is a supplement to the officialmanual. addition, supplementation, additive, extra, companion, add-on, accessory, adjunct, appendage, appurtenance. 2 the single room supplement is$30. surcharge, addition, increase. 3 a supplement to theessays. appendix, addendum, endmatter, tailpiece, codicil, rider, postscript, addition, extension, coda, sequel. 4 our specialsupplement is packed with ideas for healthy hair. magazinesection, pullout, insert, special-feature section. verb most of the families in the villagesupplemented their incomes by working in the wool-spinningmills. augment, increase, add to, boost, swell, amplify, enlarge, makelarger/bigger/greater; complement, roundoff, complete; widen, broaden, expand; British English top up.

Welcome to the sixth issue of ‘The Supplement’, which is a little different from previous editions.

This one has a specific focus, meaning that unlike other copies of ‘The Supplement’, there is a connection between all the pieces. Their relatedness is ‘creativity’.

All the writing is either straightforwardly creative, such as a poem or a piece of fiction, or an imaginative, non-analytical response to a literary work. One other piece discusses a novel in terms of its inventiveness, the source of its creativity.

Creative writing, no matter in what form it arrives, is often more difficult to achieve than conventional composition.

This change has come about because we appreciated that writing should be more than investigatory or critical, and we wanted to redress the balance.

Also, of course, we have listened to the wishes of parents and students. The visit of the UK Poet Laureate Simon Armitage a few weeks ago can be seen as a way of kick-starting this adjusted strategy.

Many of the poems here, especially the ‘In the Future’ ones, were written during his sessions. The aim here was to break down the self-consciousness that attaches itself to all writing and, in particular, creative writing – especially the kind where the writer is drawing on his or her own thoughts. Subsequently, they are at the same time raw and revealing, unvarnished windows into the imagination.

Although several other pieces are more ‘worked’, the general aim here is to enable students to access their unconscious (or subconscious) in as un-embarrassed ways as possible. The great phenomenological philosopher Maurice Merleau-Ponty argued that our physical bodies are important in perceiving or imaging the world. That is often why we feel ‘shy’ about articulating our feelings about it – the feelings are physically intense. He argued that Cezanne’s paintings, for example, capture the sense of living perception. It is their distortions of reality rather than any photographic rendering of reality itself – its ‘brute facts’ – that shows people how we feel and think about something. This is something we have tried to reflect in the first ‘creative’ edition of ‘The Supplement’.

Still Life with Apples (Cezanne) From next year, we hope to include at least one edition devoted to creative writing. Also, to see if we can generate enough material to assign different types of writing to individual editions of ‘The Supplement’. This might mean increasing the number of publications from the current four to, say, five editions per annum.

There will be more news about the different types of writing in the next issue but, for the moment, ‘The Supplement #6’ represents a slight shift in momentum.

Please enjoy it and feel free to comment. As usual, I also ask that if any parents have a piece of writing they would like to offer for publication, they should not be shy in coming forward.

The Editors

The Supplement 6, p. 2
The Supplement 6, p. 2
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Page 3

Poems

In the Future

In the future, birds are only black and blueIn the future, money will be uselessIn the future, air is greyIn the future, you learn by eating bread booksIn the future, the sea is dry landIn the future, brains are AIIn the future, everyone will have foodIn the future, gestures will be importantIn the future, flowers will be silverIn the future, penguins will be pets

Think

Once upon a time, there was a teacherCalled Miss Diana.She was always saying, ‘Think, think, think’.

‘Damn,’ she once said.Me and my class saidIt was a bad thing to have said.

Never laugh in her class.A bad feeling. Ssssssssh!‘Unbelievable,’ she would hiss.

Get on the work sheet. Quick.But one boy stood up.She turned around and saw him.

So, he was doomed.

In the Future

In the future, the sea level will riseIn the future, we can print videosIn the future, people will explore space moreIn the future, people in spaceships will land on MarsIn the future, buildings will be ten kilometres tallIn the future, we will stop burning things to make energyIn the future, a plane’s speed will reach 2,000 k.p.h.In the future, there will be an i-phone 1,000,000 ProMaxIn the future, cars can flyIn the future, Grant will be a pilotIn the future, Japan will have a super-catastrophic tsunamiIn the future, penguins are extinctIn the future, people will forever be looking at their phones

Naughty Rebecca

Once upon a time, in Fourth Grade, I had an English teacher.She was awful and extremely plain.I only put a pen in my pencil bag,And she gave me a demerit, for no reason.

I tried to explain.‘I’m not debating this with you,’ she said.My head almost explodedWhile she used her unkind eyesight on me.

This sort of thing was repeated for seven months.I was hopeless in English.My mom was angryAnd she went to find Ms. Rebecca.

She is unwell nowAnd doesn’t go to school.I was happy.April was different.

In the FutureIn the future, we will all dieIn the future, food will be sent to robotsIn the future, pens will be auto-maticIn the future, Minecraft will be bannedIn the future, birds will be robotsIn the future, cars can fly and drive in waterIn the future, fruits will be un-nutritiousIn the future, now will be oldIn the future, the food chain will be brokenIn the future, animals will be extinctIn the future, candies will be healthyIn the future, no one will lose teeth

No CandyI love candies so much,And I believe you’ll agree.Oh! How much I miss them –But my mom just won’t let me!

When my mom looks after my sis,It’s the only chance.I sneak into our snack barAnd steal some candies.

You sure will say, ‘Will your mom know?’I agree.But luckily…She didn’t!

In the Future

In the future, birds will be any colour they wantIn the future, everyone will be richIn the future, air will be smellyIn the future, books will be garbage and no one will like themIn the future, the sea will be the colour greyIn the future, brains will be rareIn the future, food will be free to takeIn the future, gestures will be so funnyIn the future, Love will be goodIn the future, Iris will be wiseIn the future, phones will be like trashIn the future, cars will be flying all aroundIn the future, animals will be easy to trainIn the future, games will be more funIn the future, Ms. Rebecca won’t be at schoolIn the future, Joseph will be expelledIn the future, Ms. Diana will keep saying, ‘THINK!’In the future, everything will be different than now

In the FutureIn the future, birds will no longer existIn the future, money will be replaced by tradingIn the future, air will be stinkyIn the future, books need to be eaten (to get information)In the future, seas will be made of bubble waterIn the future, brains will be made of musclesIn the future, people do not have to eat foodIn the future, making gestures is illegalIn the future, Love is uselessIn the future, Lionel will dieIn the future, teeth will be made of steelIn the future, music is noisyIn the future, Steve will be killed by the PresidentIn the future, people will be always aliveIn the future, clothes are invisibleIn the future, language is ga-ga-ga-gaIn the future, Shanghai will be exploded by a nuclear bomb.

The Naughty CatMy little cat is always so naughtyIt fights other cats for food and shelterBut it is so helpless.

My little cat is always so naughty It always fights on the carpet and wins against the biggest cat But when I found the crime scene, there was nothing to see on the mat.

My little cat is always so naughtyIt constantly wants to eat the biggest cat’s foodSo, every day I am in a bad mood.

My little cat is always so naughtyIt will escape from its cage and go into another oneYou can’t stop it even though you try as hard as you can.

My little cat is so naughty.Do you want a cat,That makes a mess on the mat?

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Page 10

Response to ‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time’

‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time’

This is a novel about a boy, Christopher, who is autistic. This leads to him perceiving the world in a very individual way. Students were asked to articulate one of their own experiences in the same manner.

I like playing basketball, it is easy, you only need to find a way to put the ball into a hoop, the rules are easy. At the same time, the calculation of points is clear, there is a three point line, if you shoot inside the three point line you get two points per shot you make, and outside the three point line you get three points per shot. The NBA three-point line is 23ft9, and for FIBA it is 91.86ft. The basketball hoop is exactly 305 centimeters high. I can remember these clearly because these are all numbers.

Playing basketball however is sometimes hard for me when playing with others, because everyone wants the ball, but there’s only one ball, they call it sharing, but I don’t understand this because why would I give my ball to others. I think the problem is that other people don't see the ball the same way I do. To me, the ball is part of my focus. When I have it, I know exactly what to do: dribble, move toward the hoop, calculate the angle, shoot. The ball follows physics — predictable, fair, logical. When I give the ball to someone else, I lose control. They might dribble badly, shoot from a bad spot, or get the ball stolen. That feels inefficient and wrong.

At the same time, no one explained the real rule of sharing to me. In math, rules are written down. In basketball, the official rulebook says nothing about ‘you must pass to be nice’. So why do people get angry when I don't pass? They say ‘teamwork’, but teamwork is not a number. You cannot measure teamwork in points or meters. That makes it uncomfortable for me, because I like things that are measurable. Sometimes I try to pass just to make them stop yelling, but then I feel lost without the ball. My hands feel empty and my brain has nothing to calculate. Other players move in ways I cannot predict. They cut left, cut right, wave their arms, call my name. It is too much information at once. So, I stop moving and just stand there until someone takes the ball from me.

My coach once told me: ‘Even the best shooter in the world passes the ball because one person cannot be everywhere on the court.’ I thought about this for a long time. He was using logic. If I am on the left side and a teammate is open on the right side, passing is faster than me running across the whole court. That makes sense. Passing is not about being nice — it is about math and efficiency. A pass travels faster than a person runs. However, even though it makes a little sense, but playing basketball with others is still hard. The noise is loud, the movements are fast, and sometimes I still want to keep the ball forever. But now I have a rule I made for myself: before I shoot, look once to see if someone is in a better spot. If yes, pass. If no, shoot. That is a clear rule, like the three-point line. And that helps me feel less confused.

The hum of the fluorescent light is too loud. It’s a high, thin sound, like a mosquito stuck in a glass, and it doesn’t stop. I stare at the pattern on my sleeve—blue and white stripes, each one exactly 1.5 centimeters wide. I count them again: 1, 2, 3… 17. The fabric is soft, not scratchy, which is good. Scratchy fabric makes my skin feel like it’s burning. Someone talks to me. Their voice is too fast, too high, blending with the fluorescent hum. I don’t look up. Looking at eyes is hard; they move too much, like tiny bugs. I keep my eyes on the stripes. “Are you listening?” they ask. I nod, but I’m not really. I’m listening to the hum, counting the stripes, feeling the soft fabric. Those things are clear. Their words are fuzzy, like static on a radio. A pen drops on the floor. The clatter is sharp, like a hammer hitting metal. I flinch. My hands curl into fists, pressing into my thighs. The sound echoes in my head, over and over. I wait for it to stop. It takes 12 seconds. I count each one. 1… 12. Now the hum is back, louder than before. I breathe in slow, inhale for 4 counts, hold for 2, exhale for 6. That’s the pattern that keeps my chest from feeling tight. I notice the clock on the wall. The secondhand ticks: tick-tick-tick. It’s steady, predictable. I count the ticks with my breath. Tick (inhale 1), tick (2), tick (3), tick (4)—hold (tick 5, 6), exhale (tick 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12). The clock’s face is white, the numbers black, no extra marks. I like that. No surprises. Someone moves a chair. The scrape is rough, like sandpaper on wood. I squeeze my eyes shut. The stripes on my sleeve are still there, 17 stripes, soft and steady. The hum, the tick, the soft fabric—these are my anchors. They don’t change, don’t yell, don’t expect me to be different. I count the stripes again. 1, 2, 3… 17. It’s perfect. Everything else is too much, but this—this is okay. A strand of hair falls on my wrist. It’s thin, light, tickling like a spider’s leg. I pluck it slowly, between my thumb and index finger—smooth, not coarse. I roll it into a tiny ball, 3 millimetres wide. I count the rolls: 5. It sits on my palm, warm from my skin. The hum dips for a second, then rises again. I hold my breath, wait—1, 2—and it’s back to the same pitch. Good. Predictable. A door creaks down the hall. Long, low, like a tree branch bending. I stiffen, fingers pressing the hair ball into my palm. It hurts a little, but the sharpness grounds me. 1, 2, 3… 7 seconds, and the creak fades. I unclench my hand. The hair ball is still there. I stroke the sleeve stripes again, 1 to 17, slow. My breath matches the clock’s tick. Tick, inhale. Tick, exhale. No words, no eyes, no loud surprises. Just the hum, the tick, the soft stripe, the tiny hair ball. This is quiet. This is safe.

I decided to go to the convenience store to get something to eat. I did not like the red and green colours of the taxis, so I decided to walk instead. It took me about 7 minutes and 5 seconds to get there. When I arrived, the time was exactly 2:33, which was what I had expected. There were a lot of people on the streets wearing blue jeans-some with holes in them, though I don't know why.

From the window of the convenience store, I saw an old man wearing a green shirt and holding a bottle of cold water. I did not go in because I don't like the colour green, so I waited for him to come out. It took him 5 minutes and 19 seconds to get everything he needed. Once I stepped inside, I smelled a mix of chocolate, chips, and sausage. The cashier had dark black hair in a bun, a white mask, brown eyes with extremely long eyelashes, and red lipstick. I put on my brown gloves because I don't like touching things others have touched; I also avoided the items the old man had handled.

I chose a plain rice cake and a 300-milliliter bottle of milk. I walked to the cashier and used a wet wipe to clean the counter before placing my items on the wooden table. The cashier used something with a glowing red light to scan my chosen items and tapped on an iPad screen. She said, ‘3 dollars and 4 cents.’ I took out a paper bill that had been folded into a shape and handed her the the circular-folded bill along with some coins. The cashier took the circularfolded bill with her fingers. She spent exactly 12 seconds unfolding the paper until it was flat again, then she placed it under the ipad screen. I watched her hands carefully, making sure she did not touch my items after touching the money. Once she finished, she pushed the plain rice cake and the 300-millilter bottle of milk toward me. I picked them up with my white gloved hands and headed out toward the convenience stores glass door. Outside, I looked at the street and counted 14 people in blue jeans walking past. I began my 7-minute and 5-second walk back home, walking slowly to make sure that I arrived exactly the time I scheduled to. When I was walking, I held my bottle of milk tightly, making sure that it didn't touch my clothes. I felt good that I didn't have to see the green-shirted man or the red and green taxis anymore. When I got back inside my house, I put my milk and the rice cake on the kitchen table right away. The clock on the wall said 2:47. This means my walk back took exactly 7 minutes and 5 seconds, just like the walk there. I took off my brown gloves very carefully. I made sure I did not touch the dirty I’m the outside parts of the cloth. I put the brown gloves next to the sink to wash them in 20 minutes.

I sat down on my plain white chair and looked at the milk bottle. There were exactly four small drops of water on the outside of the plastic. This water came from the cold air inside the convenient store. I used a clean paper towel to wipe them off until the bottle was completely dry. After that, I opened the plastic paper on the rice cake. It did not have any smell. This was exactly what I wanted not the bad mix of chocolate and sausage smells from the store. I ate the rice cake in small bites. It was exactly 12 bites until it was all gone.

After I finished eating, it was exactly 20 minutes and once I finished my 10-minute glove wash, I looked out my small kitchen window to see the rock and grey street. There were a lot of green taxis out there which made me unhappy, so I quickly closed the curtains to block the window. But I was really happy because no people in blue jeans were walking past my house. Once I closed the curtains to block the view from the window and I felt really safe. This is because everything in my house was in the right place and is clean. I also felt safe because the man in the green shirt is gone and I can’t see him anymore.

I was in study hall yesterday, 14.32, Mar. 13th, 2026. I was doing my maths homework, so I can do less work at home. I like maths. There are numbers and equations that are very interesting. A long time ago when my Chinese teacher told me that she doesn’t like maths, because it is very confusing, I walked away because I don’t like others disliking what I like. Then a student opened the door loudly and walked to Mr. Albert, who was supervising us. He asked questions about science to Mr. Albert and he started laughing because the questions were stupid.

I am confused because the student obviously knows the answer however he just wants to make Mr. Albert angry. Then Mr. Albert led him out, and there was a loud speaking noise outside.

After the teacher went out, a lot of people started to speak because if we all spoke at one there was no way he would figure out who was actually speaking. So, the classroom got louder and louder. And this is when I stood up and left the classroom. I don’t like loud sounds, especially words. Then the teacher tried to catch me because I was escaping. He said that it is a warning for me. However, I was frightened by the sound and I went into the bathroom to hide.

The bathroom is small. The lights are white and too bright. The A/C keeps spinning and making a low noise. It’s not loud, so I can stand it. I stand in the corner, back against the wall. No one comes in. No voices. No sudden movements.

The sun is super bright and hurts my eyes. I try to find the frisbee in the sky, but everything is white and blurry. The crowd is yelling loud, my coach is screaming my name, some parent is cheering. It all mixes together in my head and I can't think. My shirt is soaked with sweat and sticking to me, the only thing that I think in my mind is and it feels gross and itchy. I cast off the defender and take the frisbee, suddenly 2 defenders run next to me and gives me so many pressures. I can taste my own sweat dripping down my face. The other team is running at me, their bright blue jerseys flashing everywhere I look, I cannot see where my partner is and where I can pass. Someone bumps my shoulder, and it surprises me, my whole body fly crosses the field for 10 meters. The frisbee is coming toward me but I hear three people shouting different things go, stop, left and I freeze. I don't know what to do. The frisbee hits the ground, it’s a “turnover”. My teammates are shouting look at your defender. My heart is pounding and I’m tired, I lay on the ground for 6 seconds and stand up continue playing the rest 8 minutes of competition.

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Page 15

Extract from play ‘Stairway to Heaven’

This is an extract from a play in which six characters, all of different ages, die at roughly the same time. The end of the play sees them meeting in God’s waiting room before their ascent to Heaven. Each of the characters is given a monologue explaining who he or she is. Man #1 is the first character.

Man # 1 So one of the nurses said to me, ‘Is this normal behaviour?’ And I said, ‘Is what normal behavior?’ And she said, ‘Behaving like this.’ And I said, ‘Behaving like what?’ And she said, ‘Like this.’ And then she made a gesture with her hand, a kind of illustrative gesture that was also a disapproving one. I could tell that she took a dim view of me even though she was trying hard not to come across as disparaging or overcritical. Then she tried to turn it into something else, to take the sting out of what she’d said. Not a joke, exactly. But something lighthearted that was intended to cast what she said, which was meant in an unkindly, judgemental way, into something that seemed neither unkind nor judgemental. I suppose to take the tension out of the situation. She said, ‘I guess it helps you to relax. And you’ve been doing it for so many years, so you must know what you’re doing. Right?’ But that only made things worse because then she was worried that she’d offended me by making a comment about my age. She’s new in this hospital and relatively young. Probably in her late twenties. And what am I? Sixty-two. Not quite an old man, not yet, but getting on for one. What she meant when she asked ‘Is this normal behaviour?’ was my habit of taking a nap just before an operation and listening to music. Quite loud music and not what you’d expect like – oh, I don’t know – a bit of Brahms, say, or maybe even Bruchner…perhaps something from the seventh or ninth symphonies – but disco music. Do they have discos these days? Anyway, something I can recall from my teenage years. I think she wanted me to come across as a serious and solemn man – mature – preoccupied in an entirely focused way on the job in hand. Professional concentration with all the trimmings. I am a serious and solemn man, when seriousness and solemnity are appropriate. Somehow, she couldn’t equate what I was about to do in the operating theatre with ‘Love Train’, the 1973 hit single from the Ohio-based R&B outfit, the O’Jays.

I suppose she thought it made me look frivolous. But being frivolous or flippant is not what I do. The music is a means to an end. I want the atmosphere in the operating theatre to be as relaxed as possible. To be as unselfconscious as possible. Which doesn’t mean that I am relaxed or unselfconscious. Quite the reverse, in fact. But if I am too tense or too aware of what I am doing, then I don’t feel comfortable with what I’m doing. Do you see what I mean? I often have to cut into the brain. This is something I hate doing. With a pair of diathermy forceps I coagulate the beautiful and intricate red blood vessels that lie on the brain’s shining surface. I cut into it with a small scalpel and make a hole through which I push with a fine sucker – as the brain has the consistency of jelly a sucker is the brain surgeon’s principal tool. I look down my operating microscope, feeling my way downwards through the soft white substance of the brain, searching for the tumour. The idea that my sucker is moving through thought itself, through emotion and reason, that memories, dreams and reflections – the things that make us who we are – should consist of jelly, is simply too strange to understand. All I can see in front of me is matter. Substance. Stuff. Yet I know that if I stray into the wrong area, into what neurosurgeons call eloquent brain, I will be faced by a damaged and disabled patient when I go round to the Recovery Ward after the operation to see what I have achieved. Despite all the technology and the scientific advances, neurosurgery is still a dangerous business. Skill and experience are still required as my instruments sink into the brain or spinal cord, and I must know when to stop. Luck plays a part, too. And as I become more and more experienced, it seems that luck becomes ever more important. Lights fade to half-light and then back up again. I was in the supermarket the other day buying some mincemeat and some kind of bolognaise sauce for dinner. Mincemeat, by the way, is not dissimilar in appearance to the brain. But that’s neither here nor there. I was standing in a queue of two or three peo ple waiting to pay. I couldn’t help overhearing what two of the other people were talking about. Evidently, they knew one another. Perhaps they are neighbours? The one woman – solid, middle-aged, blonde hair, almost certainly out of a bottle, was saying to her friend or neighbour or whatever, who was trimmer and had brownish hair, though I wouldn’t have gone so far as to call her a brunette – ‘Do you know what Lucy said? Do you know what Lucy said? “You shouldn’t have said that,” is what Lucy said. And I said, “I know. But sometimes it’s necessary.” ‘What’s necessary?” Lucy asked. “To say something that’s necessary,” I said, “even if it’s uncomfortable to say it.” Lucy thought for a minute, then she said, ‘Is that what they call tough love?” and I said, “Yes, Luce, I think it is what they call tough love. And sometimes you’ve just got to say it.” She’s too goodhearted for own good, sometimes, is Lucy.’ And I listened to this and all the time I was thinking, ‘Do you know what I do for a living? Even though I’m standing in this queue behind you waiting to pay for my mincemeat and bolognaise sauce, do you know how extraordinary my job is? Do you understand how important my time is? And, furthermore, do you know how inane and trivial your conversation sounds to me?’ And then, almost immediately, I hated myself for thinking it. But the thought wouldn’t go away no matter how hard I tried to push it. Lights fade to half-light and then back up again. Years ago, when I had only been a consultant for four or five years, I went to Waitrose on the Kings Road to buy food and drink and chocolates and flowers for the theatre staff. Of course, I still try to look after the staff who assist me in the operating theatre but back then I was especially keen to impress people with my generosity and all-round proficiency. Back then, I had a very exaggerated opinion of my importance. The patient was a schoolteacher. I forget what subject he taught. I think it was one of the sciences. Maybe Physics. As a result of a brain scan, his neurologist had sent him to see me. We sat in my office looking at the scans. Outside, through the window, there was a view over the hospital car park and a small cluster of birch trees, known by everyone who worked there as ‘The Clump’. His wife and two children sat beside him. One son and one daughter. Both of them, I guess, in their early teens.

I already knew what the scan would show, of course, but I was unsettled by the size of the tumour growing from the base of the skull. All of the brain stem and the cranial nerves – the nerves for hearing, movement, sensation for the face, and for swallowing and talking – were stretched over its sinister hump-backed mass. I had only seen a tumour this size before in text books. I asked him what he had been told about the tumour. He said, ‘I have been told that it’s benign.’ Then his wife added, ‘The neurologist said it was up to you whether or not you operated. Whether it should be removed or not.’ I said, ‘Yes, it’s certainly benign. But it’s also very big. It’s probably been there for many years.’ Then I asked him what made him have the scan in the first place. ‘My walking had become a little unsteady,’ he said. And his wife added, ‘And you were losing your hearing, Mike. Don’t forget that.’ Then his son said, ‘The right ear, dad. The right ear.’ I think he was trying to be helpful. The two children looked at each and smirked, like their dad’s loss of hearing had become a family joke. The man’s name was Mike. I remember that now. The tumour had to come out. I knew that. If I didn’t operate, the tumour would grow and things would get worse. On the other hand, it was benign, so the news wasn’t all bad. I also knew that the operation would be a long one – the tumour was so exceptionally big. Part of me, I admit, was excited by the thought of the operation. Tumours that size – the size of Mike’s tumour – were, are, rare. There would be a certain amount of professional interest in the operation. Other neurosurgeons would be intrigued by it. In neurosurgery, size is important. I suppose I felt that in some kind of way the operation would help my career. The first few hours of the operation went perfectly. By three in the morning, after fifteen hours of operating, it looked like most of the tumour was out and the cranial nerves had not been damaged. Every two or three hours I would stop and join the nurses in the staff room and have something to eat and drink. We worked our way through the stuff I had bought at Waitrose earlier in the day. Sometimes I listened to music while I was operating and this was one of those occasions. More disco music, of course. I had saved the quickest music to the end – the music with the fastest pace and rhythm: I called this the ‘closing music’, which we use when stitching up a patient’s head. I planned to stitch up Mike’s head while listening to ‘Knock on Wood’ by Amii Stewart. Maybe I should have stopped at that point. After all, almost all the tumour had been removed. But I wanted to say I had removed the tumour in its entirety. As I started to remove it, I tore a small perforating branch off the basilar artery, a vessel the width of a thick pin. A narrow jet of bright red arterial blood started to pump upwards. I knew at once this was a catastrophe. The blood loss was trivial and quite easy to stop. But the damage to the brainstem was terrible. The basilar artery is the artery that keeps the brainstem alive and it is the brainstem that keeps the rest of the brain awake. As a result, the patient never woke up. Mike the schoolteacher never woke up. He is still in a coma though not on a ventilator. He has been in a nursing home all these years. I saw him yesterday when I went to the home to visit a friend of mine, a doctor, who worked there. At first, even though it seemed vaguely familiar, I did not recognize the name on the door of the patient’s room. Of Mike’s room. Then, slowly, it dawned on me. I put my head round the door. The patient – Mike – was curled in a ball on the bed. He spent much of the time like that, unable to move. One of the senior neurosurgeons who trained me once said that ‘great surgeons tend to have bad memories’. He meant that neurosurgeons make mistakes and that they need to forget their mistakes in order to carry on being successful neurosurgeons. I hope I am a good surgeon. But I am certainly not a great surgeon. It’s not the successes I remember, but the failures. On the other hand, Mike was evidence – living proof, you might say… though in what sense ‘living’? – that I can also forget these. And forget them very easily.

Some of my failures were people who I couldn’t help but here was one man whose life I had wrecked. I wondered if Mike was aware in any way of what was going on around him. Was there anything happening inside his head? After the botched operation, his wife told me that Mike was a religious man and that he had gone to great lengths to make sense of his belief in science with his belief in God. Apparently, she visited her husband twice every week, convinced that he was in some way sustained by his faith and that contrary to medical evidence he maintained some kind of meaningful inner life. There is no way of knowing, of course. Can we ever know? Instrumental version of ‘Stairway to Heaven’ plays. Lights fade to black and then fade up to half-light to reveal a figure standing in the middle of the stage. The figure, one of the six examination candidates, is motionless and wearing a grey overall. A stagehand appears and brings in a plain wooden chair. Lights fade to normal. Music stops.

Steve

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Page 21

Poems

Poems of dissent and disobedience

When I was a child,10-11 years old and in school,I always asked for ‘leftover’ food for lunch,instead of buying my own.

My mom told me to buy my own lunch,And not ask for food.She said, ‘It is like being a beggar,to ask others for leftovers.’

But A, B, & C meals have long lines.Students need to wait 5 minutes, 10 minutes, or moreFor a disgusting meal.For me, that’s a waste of my time.

Asking others for food is better.You get meat, vegetables, and rice,No worse than any of the school meals,And tasty, too.

I do buy meals, sometimes.If the line is short.And the food looks tasty.But asking for food is still always better.

I love to play video games.My parents found out.They argue that games are violent,Which is why I like them.

I play games in the car,They found out.So they tell the driverNot to give me WiFi any longer.

I play in my break-time;They found out.They thought I was watching TV.So, they deleted my games.

I reinstalled the games.They found out.And at night they washed in the bathroom, one at a time,So one of them could watch me and make sure I wasn’t playing games.

Her Phone

My mumWent toThe shower.Should IPeek atHer phone?It does concealMy test scores.Oh my god,98!I have toHide my grinOr else, I’d lose my prize.Yes!

Video GamesI am 11 years old,Doing my homework and needing to search something.I take my iPad and wait for it to load.I research for a long time, for all sorts.

I write the information down,I feel tired and bored – so I play video games.Mom comes in and sees me playing. She frowns.But I still keep playing video games.

My mom comes into my room to check.So, I put my iPad under my book and act ‘doing homework’.I start playing video games as soon my mom leaves.And I never did my homework again.

In the future, birds will develop six wingsIn the future, money can fly and have rainbow coloursIn the future, food can only be ‘fast’ foodIn the future, books will float in the sky, flipping pages by themselvesIn the future, cars can be as tall as trees and fly like birdsIn the future, music will be played by robotsIn the future, love will be mostly fake with robotsIn the future, death will happen less and lessIn the future, I will be handsome and have kidsIn the future, iPhones will have many screensIn the future, backpacks will weigh light but be able hold many thingsIn the future, shoes will be unbreakable and go fast when you are runningIn the future, war will happen less because of harmful weaponsIn the future, roller coasters will be longer and way faster.

In the future, birds will become mechanic dinosaurs In the future, money will be controlled by AI and used wisely In the future, everyone will be eating what wealthy people are eating today In the future, the big televisions will serve up books of every kind In the future, cars will be flying all over cities and be controlled by AI In the future, music will be made by AI with different styles, satisfying everyone’s needs In the future, everyone will be in love and can express feelings easily In the future, death is something that isn’t sad and the dead will be robots In the future, I will be in heaven, looking down at the robot that has taken me over.

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Page 27

Response to Grimm’s Fairy Tales

Once Upon a Time The students read a number of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, discussed the main characteristics of each story, and then wrote their own versions. Two students wrote different versions of the same workshopped story; one created a different narrative altogether; and one decided to take a moment from a story and turn it into a more detailed account.

Once upon a time, there was a mother called Motchi and a father called Berry. They didn’t have any children, which made them very unhappy. When they got old, there would be no one to look after them and while they were alive, they wanted young boys and girls to make their lives full of noise and excitement.

Berry said that when he died, Motchi should just put him in a box and not open it again. He didn’t want to be disturbed after he was gone and there would be nobody else to mourn him. Motchi said she would be sad but would anyway do as Berry wished. They always tried to please each other because they wanted to help the other one.

However, soon afterwards, Motchi gave birth to a son. He was called Mark. This made Motchi very happy. Berry was away in the Second World War, which had just started, and Motchi couldn’t wait to show him their little boy.

Unfortunately, Berry never met his son. He was killed in the war. He was in the navy and when his ship sunk, he drowned. This made Motchi very sad indeed. Not only had she lost her husband but Mark had lost his father.

Motchi did exactly what Berry had asked. She put him in a box and never opened it. Although she thought of him often, she also respected what he said and tried her best to live a normal life and be a good mother.

Many years passed.

One day, when she was in a restaurant, she met a man called Jason. They quickly fell in love and soon afterwards they got married. Jason already had a daughter who was called Stephanie. Her mother had died in a car accident. Jason was very sad but soon became happy once he’d met Motchi.

However, Jason came to dislike Mark because Motchi’s son didn’t get on with Stephanie. This made Jason angry and one day his temper got the better of him. He picked up an axe, and sliced Mark into small pieces.

Jason put the pieces into the box containing Berry, Mark’s father. He knew that Motchi would never open the box, so it was a good place to hide Mark.

Motchi asked Jason where Mark was and he replied, ‘Your son has gone into the forest to chop wood for our fire.’

Even though Mark was absent for many months, Jason kept telling Motchi the same story and she believed him.

Meanwhile, Mark changed into a bluebird and flew away to Jason’s old home town. While he was there, he got to know all the townspeople and they grew to love the bird, who would sing to them every morning for three years and three days. And when he said he had to leave, they said they would give him a present for every year that he had been there. Mark asked for a golden mask, clothes and a rock.

When he got back to Motchi’s house, he saw that things had changed. Jason was continuing to be nasty. He didn’t give Motchi and Stephanie much food. He sometimes beat his daughter. And he sent them to bed early so he could be by himself.

When he saw this, Mark knew what he had to do. He gave the mask to Motchi to stop her looking older and so sad because the mask had a big smile on it. He gave clothes to Stephanie because her father had not bought her any for years. And he dropped the rock on Jason, which killed him.

After Jason’s death, Motchi and Stephanie lived happily. Mark lived with them as a bluebird and even though they didn’t know who it was, they liked his singing and he became part of their family.

Once upon a time, Motchi and Berry were a kind couple with no children. They felt sad and wished for a baby. Soon, Berry went to war and told Motchi, if he died, to put him in a box and never open it.

Later, Motchi had a son named Mark. But Berry never came back alive – he had died at sea. Motchi kept her promise and put Berry in the box. She raised Mark alone, happily.

Years later, Motchi married Jason, who already had a daughter called Stephanie. At first, everyone was friendly. But Jason soon became angry and cruel. He disliked Mark because Mark and Stephanie didn’t get along.

One bad day, Jason hurt Mark, killing him, and hid him in the box with the dead Berry. He lied to Motchi that Mark had gone into the forest to chop wood. Motchi believed and felt very sad when Mark didn’t return.

Meanwhile, Mark turned into a bluebird and flew to a town. He sang for the people there for three years. They gave him a golden mask, new clothes, and a heavy rock.

The bluebird, who was really Mark, flew home. He gave the mask to Motchi to make her smile. He gave clothes to Stephanie. Then, he dropped the rock on Jason. And Jason was gone!

Motchi and Stephanie lived happily together. The bluebird stayed and sang for them every day and they all lived in peace together.

Once upon a time, there was a happy family. Dad went hunting in the morning but a tiger came and hurt him. Mom was sad but she still had to take care of her little boy.

Later, she married a new man but this new dad was not kind. One morning, mom went to buy some food and while she was away, the new dad thought the little boy was too noisy and too naughty. So, he killed the boy and fed his body to the dogs.

When mom came back, she said, ‘Where is my son?’ The new dad lied. ‘I took him to a school and he was turned into a cat there.’

The next day, the new dad bought a cat from a shop and took it home. The cat was very angry. He scratched the new dad with his claws, which made him mad so he threw the cat into the street.

A car hit the cat, but it didn’t hurt him badly. The driver picked the cat up and drove to the airport with him, where he jumped on a plane as it was taking off. But the cat fell off the plane and fell to the ground, where he luckily landed in a swimming pool.

A kind little boy found the cat and took him home. Later, the cat met an old woman who was not really human. She gave him a golden mask, a magic rock, and some nice clothes. But she also said, ‘You must give me your life in exchange for these things’.

But when she came to take the cat’s life, lightning hit her and she was scared and ran away. The cat was safe now. He lived happily with the kind boy and never saw his bad new dad again. This magical adventure taught him that kindness always wins.

As Ann was carried off the ship by people from the village, she felt frightened. Even though she was scared, she was still calm. From her point of view, she counted six men who were taking her away. Two of them held her tightly by the arms. Two others led the way. They had long sharp spears. The last two men were behind Ann, checking that no one from the ship were following.

All though there were six men, Ann still looked for ways to escape. But there were none.

Quickly, they reached the village. She looked behind her, hoping that Jake would rescue her. She was speaking to the man who was taking her away.

‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked.

But there was no reply.

Soon, they came to the big table. No one even looked at her. The man took her arms and tied them to two big wooden blocks. Then, they left her alone. This was the frightening thing because after the man had left, there was complete silence. Even the birds stopped singing. When she looked up at the sky, there was nothing.

All of a sudden, she heard a crashing sound. It was coming from a long way away. She could see trees moving. As something that they themselves were watching, a huge black shadow fell over her, and even the sun disappeared.

That was the moment she became terrified.

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Page 32

‘The Story of a New Name’ by Elena Ferrante

‘The Story of a New Name’ and What it Reveals

This student reflects on her reading of Elena Ferrante’s ‘The Story of a New Name’ and discusses the meaning of the novel as well as musing about creativity, imagination and role of writing in the story.

The Story of a New Name, the second novel in the renowned Neapolitan Quartet by Elena Ferrante, is connected to but otherwise different from its prequel, My Brilliant Friend. While the former is a beautiful yet tangled mix of events, symbolism and the ever-present idea of dissolving margins, The Story of a New Name offers a much more linear narrative, but provides surprising insights on human nature, on the 20th century world and on life itself, suggesting ‘new names’ to things we have previously taken for granted.

For sake of clarity, I will separate this article into three parts, each one corresponding to one angle of the insights I have listed above. 1. On Human Nature (and characters) 1. 1 Writing & the Bright Side of Humanity The book starts by this sentence: ‘In the spring of 1966, Lila, in a state of great agitation, entrusted to me a metal box that contained eight notebooks,’ (Ferrante 15). The notebooks were part diary and part personal reflection, containing detailed accounts of the events in Lila's life, thoughtful illustrations of the neighborhood, translation exercises, outbursts of intense emotion and sudden intuition, flurried sketches of Naples's ‘twisted trees, humped, smoking mountains, grim faces.’ Apart from The Blue Fairy, a novel written when Lila was ten, which I will get to later, this box of notebooks is the only evidence of Lila's writing described to readers. Thus, they offer a new angle to analyze Lila's character which, though described through the eyes of Elena, are nonetheless revealed by Lila herself.

Lila's writing is an extremely detailed record of what she thinks, feels and observes. Unlike Elena's writing, Lila strives to record and explain everything she observes. ‘The branch of a tree,’ the author enumerates, ‘the ponds, a stone, a leaf with its white veinings, the pots in the kitchen, the various parts of a coffeemaker, the brazier, the coal and bits of coal [...] the broad avenue of the stradone, the rusting iron structure beyond the ponds, the garden, and the church, the cut of the vegetation alongside the railway, the new buildings [...] and above all colors, the colors of every object at different times of the day’ (Ferrante 15). There are descriptions, some in English, Latin or Greek, of her father and brother, their gestures as they worked, of Enzo Scanno and his cart, of discussions with Pasquale, of talks with Lenù herself. There are accounts of her joy when she wrote the Blue Fairy, pain at its rejection, jealousy that Lenù was allowed to go to school and she can't, excitement for the creation of the shoes, hatred of the Solaras, questions about the sudden dissolving of Stefano, his transformation into the form of his father, Achille.

The language is vivid, detailed, intense, full of life. It is almost as if she is trying to fit in the entirety of Naples. Her writing is open to everything that life offers and doesn’t try to shape it like Elena’s books. Life’s beauty, its suffering, its chaotic and twisted roots, the whole gigantic truth about the city reflected in the daily life of a young girl in a poor suburb neighborhood, into the miniscule space of words. When the truth is too heavy or complex, the words turn chaotic and rushed themselves, and transform into pictures, as demonstrated below: ‘Usually the sentences were extremely precise, the punctuation meticulous, the handwriting elegant, just as Maestra Oliviero had taught us. But at times, as if a drug had flooded her veins, Lila seemed unable to bear the order she had imposed on herself. Everything then became breathless, the sentences took on an overexcited rhythm, the punctuation disappeared [...] it might also happen that she broke off abruptly and filled the rest of the page with little drawings of twisted trees, humped, smoking mountains, grim faces’ (Ferrante 16). This implies that words, language, marks on paper, are sometimes not enough to convey life.

These notebooks shed light on a side of Lila hidden from the rest of the world: her creativity, her silent observation of every detail and every person around her, her passion for writing and her stubborn perseverance to write even in difficult situations, the millions of ideas her brain generates that are far, far from destructive, her ‘capacity to love’ and to experience emotions as intensely or perhaps even more intensely than Lenù. One person, capable of so many observations, sensitive to so many emotions. Warmer, more relaxed and more empathetic than the determined, intense, sometimes cruel ego that she directed as a child toward everyone else, as a sort of protection against chaos. More creative and tenacious than her seemingly submissive form first towards Fernando and then towards Stefano. As Carmen once jealously said, ‘Lina thinks, Lina does, Lina knows’ (Ferrante 346). Why has she hidden it? To avoid showing weakness, a habit that is enforced by living in a family of violence, a basic wariness required for survival in the midst of insults and blows. Even towards Lenù, Lila never has truly entirely exposed herself (at least, by the end of the second book). Knowledge of her more vulnerable side give others the power to hurt her, which is exactly what happened after Lila puts her full trust in Nino out of love.

Even more evidence of Lila's more compassionate side can be found in a description of the novel she had written when she was ten, The Blue Fairy, and Elena's very extreme reactions to this sudden discovery of a relic of their childhood. ‘I began to read The Blue Fairy from the beginning, racing over the pale ink, the handwriting so similar to mine of that time,’ Elena recounted, ‘But already at the first page I began to feel sick to my stomach and soon I was covered with sweat. Only at the end, however, did I admit what I had understood after a few lines. Lila's childish pages were the secret heart of my book. Anyone who wanted to know what gave it warmth and what the origin was of the strong but invisible thread that joined the sentences would have had to go back to that child's packet, ten notebook pages, the rusty pin, the brightly colored cover, the title, and not even a signature’ (Ferrante 455). The lack of a signature hints at the impossibility of a person, an author, being able to claim that he or she has successfully contained or represented life, which has a more complex and distinctive nature.

What was The Blue Fairy about? Who was the Blue Fairy? The author never gave us an answer. Perhaps it is linked to the ‘blue fairy’ in Pinocchio. It may also be an actual character in the book. It can even be a bridge between the known and the unknown, the agent that opens mortal eyes to the base reality of life through dissolving margins. Personally, I would imagine the character to be a symbol for human nature (or at least, its good sides), a personification of unconditional love, hope and conscience, which also align with the traits of the Pinocchio version of the blue fairy. It is a state of perfection that actual human beings strive to yet may never achieve. The same is true for Lila's writing, a level of writing that is perfection, the ‘true state’ of writing. This is the standard of writing that Elena tries to imitate and give form to all her life but could never do so, for it is forever changing, it has no form. 1.2 Responses to Adversity Lila's response to adversity is especially interesting. As a child, she has suffered prolonged brutality from her family, which are results of the strong social hierarchies, normalized aggression and the ‘culture of honor’ in Naples. As previously mentioned, she has responded by using emotional ‘coldness’ and an unpredictability in action as armor against the onslaught. However, the violence she experiences in The Story of a New Name is much more subtle, yet harder to escape.

The first type of violence she experienced was with her husband. In Neapolitan culture in the 20th century, it is completely normal for a husband to beat a wife, and thus the community remained passive and unsupportive. Bonded by marriage and the new identity (new name) Signora Caracci she has bound to herself, Lila found it increasingly hard to resist aggressively (physically fighting her husband back), especially since her new role made people from the neighborhood, including her family members, resentful towards her. She reacted first subtly herself, using her name as Signora Caracci instead of Lila Cerullo to openly act ‘the lady’, imprudently offend others, take control over important shops and have sex with Nino on the beach, creating humiliation for Stefano. Her love for Nino, however, reawakened the urge to rebel, no longer for the sake of hurting Stefano but for the sake of saving herself. Because of Nino, ‘The phenomenal child of elementary school, the girl who had charmed Maestra Oliviero, who had written The Blue Fairy, had reappeared and was stirring with new energy [...] to sweep away Signora Carracci. Which she gradually did.’ (Ferrante 341). The motive behind the change in response is likely due to a few reasons: 1. The audacious and ‘phenomenal’ part of Lila, the part who can ‘cry out the truth as if it were a lie’, is tired of this prolonged period of lies and deception. 2. Through Nino, Lila has recognized that a future with Stefano is neither inevitable nor desirable, so there is no gain in further fights. 3. Lila's desire for freedom, both physically and intellectually, have exceeded her need for revenge towards Stefano. Instead of prevailing over Stefano, Lila's primary goal now is to escape from him, end this war, erase him from her life and her memory. Her pregnancy and care for her future child also fueled this desire.

To achieve this escape, Lila left Stefano's house and settled in secret with Nino in an apartment in Campi Flegrei. They lived together for twenty-three days. During the time period, she felt ‘enormously cheerful’, and discovered that ‘She didn't feel in the least the loss of the new neighborhood's comforts, she didn't smell the odor of mold, didn’t see the stain of dampness in a corner of the bedroom [...] wasn't depressed by a place that immediately foretold a return to the poverty of her childhood’ (Ferrante 357). Her fascination with this place is partly explained by her fervent love and desire for Nino, partly because of the newfound freedom and happiness this place promises, and partly because of the intrigue of erasing herself, which she repeated later in her life. She wasn't depressed by a return to the poverty of her childhood because she never was afraid of poverty. Instead, she was frightened by violence, and equally by captivity (not by Naples, she has never left Naples, but the mental and spiritual captivity by the people around her). After returning to Stefano after Nino's betrayal, Lila escapes again with the help of Enzo. They lived together in San Giovanni under hard conditions. Lila worked in the Soccavo sausage factory, suffering undernourishment, cold, fatigue, and multiple injuries on the hands and arms to earn just ten lire more an hour for working in the icy storerooms. Enzo works by day and studies programming at night. Ironically, though Lila is not afraid of poverty and even returned poverty to escape from violence, it is only to escape the subtle domestic violence at home and face the more vulgar and more excessive oppression from the wider society. Poverty is forever linked to violence and imprisonment. Without the basic comforts that a human requires, any dreams are extinguished. In an attempt to bring herself back to ‘the old Lila’, Lila stepped into a marshland that is temporarily far greater than her own strength. The feeling of alienation increased, and she destroyed her childhood self, The Blue Fairy, if only for a small victory against Lenù. But is the struggle completely futile? Comparing the current Lila, in harsh working conditions and dilapidated health, and the former Lila, crushed by the domestic abuse and intellectual stagnation of her husband, the current Lila seems happier, freer, able to learn and discuss computational theory with Enzo, able to catch the start of the Digital Revolution. It is a consideration between physical wellbeing and mental freedom. Lila chose the latter, at a cost to the former.

Compared to Lenù's responses to adversity, Lila's are very different. Firstly, her rebellions, especially in the later stage, are more direct and more optimistic, even seems far -fetched, matching her wild personality. Lenù's responses to difficulties, for example the strain of studying at school, getting bad marks, catching the flu or being criticized for the first book she's written, are more avoidant and subtle, using hard work and outward meekness as a solution or just avoiding the situation entirely (as when she temporarily left school). When crossing over a challenge, Elena takes into consideration the picture (‘ego’) that she has to maintain towards other people and feigns personality traits (e.g., meekness) to lessen social pressures and help her cope with the situation. It should be noted though, that the difficulties that Lenù experienced were far less challenging than the scenarios Lila had had to face.

1.3 Desire to Learn Lila's desire to learn is extremely different from Elena's. While Elena learns out of competitiveness, to polish her ego, Lila learns for a need to explain the world and the things that are happening around her. This is perhaps because of a fundamental difference in Lila's and Elena's personalities, one being more explorative, the other more combative. While Lenù continually tries to copy Lila, for example in the interest to write a book, the passion for shoes, the style in writing, Lila never imitates Elena. Instead, every time Elena catches up with Lila's interests, Lila changes course, shifts her interest to a new area. From books to shoes, from shoes to playing the lady, from playing the lady to swimming, then to managing shops, to books and novels she read for Nino, and at last to computer science and programming languages with Enzo. The only passion that has endured, that she has preserved all through her life, is writing. For while the varying of the sources of input gives her new specimens to study, writing is the sole output where she can try and explain all the ideas inspired by these specimens in her head. Lila's desire to learn can also be viewed as a way to unravel the mystery of dissolving margins, which she experienced all through her life.

The difference in their desires to learn also causes differences in Lila's and Lenù's styles of writing. While Elena's essays are used to prove or disprove a claim, to display her literary knowledge, but most of all to please the professors and therefore earn high marks, the purpose for Lila's writing is simply to explain the world around her. Lila's desire to learn and write is motivated by the urge to explain, making her words carry strength and sincerity, whereas the urge to imitate and to please that drives Elena's makes her language seem polished yet superfluous. This desire to explain also prompts Lila to link seemingly different topics in often surprising ways. It can be noticed that many of Elena's responses that fascinated examinators and college professors alike come directly from Lila during their vacation at the beach, for example the link between the night sky and the claim ‘beauty is a sham’, and the opinion that ‘life’ is ‘still more life’ without ‘sight or hearing’, a statement that comes from Dan Rooney, a blind character in Beckett's play All That Fall.

1.4 Psychological Symbolism The psychological symbolism of Lila and Elena is very interesting. If viewed under a psychological lens, it is commonly accepted that Lila represents the ‘id’, while Elena represents the ‘ego’. However, the ‘id’ is constantly framed negatively as irrational and immoral, driven by an animal urge for immediate pleasure, while the ‘ego’ is often framed as completely rational and moral. Therefore, to describe Lila and Lenù in a more neutral light, I will redefine the ‘id’ and the ‘ego’ as the inner self and the outer self, the inner self being the authentic core of a person, comprising of subconscious thoughts, emotions and intuitions, the outer self being the persona that we display to the outer world, shaped by social values and norms. The ‘inner self’ and the ‘outer self’ has no inherent good or bad. In reality, both parts are needed for survival, and matter on both personal and societal levels. A good comparison may be the actor on a stage: the mask cannot exist without the actor, but the actor would not be part of the stage without the mask. At most times, the ‘outer self’ consciously or subconsciously subdues the ‘inner self’ to better fit society's expectations.

The basis for this analysis is supported both by the unique fitting characteristics of Lila and Elena, and the tangled relationship between them. Like the inner self, Lila has a free and wild soul, is not fearful of the unknown, has thoughts that are deep, creative, beautiful, contains an element of unpredictability in her actions. Like the inner self, she can be intensely loving yet fiery, determined, rebellious, but has always been true to herself. Like the inner self, she is something too beautiful to exist in the material world, and dissolves into the borders of life through the process ‘dissolving margins’ at the end of her life. All of this makes her a preferable symbol of the ‘inner self’. Elena, by comparison, has always cared deeply for outside validation, from the teachers, from the professors, from the publishers, even from her boyfriends (consider how she longed for Nino's agreement). Her essays and novels need Lila (the inner self)'s inspiration and are often too polished. Yet, just as Lila cuts open the world and reveals its entrails, Lenù dissects herself using the same knife. If she indeed represents the outer self, this will explain this phenomenon, for the outer self is aware of its own inadequacies because it has the inner self to compare it to. Step by step, Elena has carefully constructed a persona for herself out of all her experiences, a ‘safehouse’ to help her forget the dissolving margins, and yet she is still haunted by the image of Lila, peering at her scrutinizingly, perhaps even and judgementally, from the streets of their childhood. She is aware of and puts down all of her flaws and inner conflicts in writing. She reflects, as Lila never did, that she wasn't well enough, that there was always something missing, which Lila has and she didn't have. She can beat Lila, in all the conventional ways, but never could she catch her. The self -awareness, self-perceived inadequacy and conditional sense of worth unique to the ‘outer self’ is the reason for Elena's social behavior and her ability to make such judgements of herself so harshly yet accurately. 1. 5 Complexity of Human Nature The nature of humans that the book reflects does not confine itself to the protagonists, Lila and Lenù. Another interesting person to discuss is Maestra Oliviero, and why she never gave Lila any feedback on The Blue Fairy, causing Lila intense pain and disappointment. At the time, the teacher seemed to ignore the book, angry at Lila's parents and warned Elena against becoming a ‘plebeian’ like Lila. However, after receiving the novel from the teacher after her death, Lenù discovers that Maestra Oliviero had read the book, had in fact praised it. "I opened it to the center page [...]’ Elena writes, ‘I saw, with amazement, that the teacher had written beside a sentence: beautiful. So she had read it? So she had liked it? I turned the pages one after the other, they were full of her wonderfuls, goods, very goods. I got angry. Old witch, I thought, why didn't you tell us that you liked it, why did you deny Lila that satisfaction? What drove you to fight for my education and not for hers? Is the refusal of the shoemaker to let his daughter take the admission examination enough to justify you? What unhappiness did you have in your head that you unloaded onto her?’ (Ferrante, 455).

The question that Elena asked, that many readers may have asked as well, can be answered in multiple ways. There is a complexity to the teacher that may have been the result of her own life's experiences, a constant fight between her role as a teacher (someone to ‘shape’ a student), an intelligent student in her past, and a woman in the neighborhood. One possible explanation is that as a teacher, Maestra Oliviero sees the possibility of ‘shaping’ Elena, to gradually polish and mould her, raise her to a better future. However, there is no opportunity in helping Lila, for she is too brilliant to be taught, too rebellious to be given a form, too wild to recognize the value of what Elena adores: fame among peers, good marks, association with the upper class, money. Another explanation is that the teacher has formerly been a student much like Lila in her youth. As a teacher, she must have at least a middle or high school diploma. Yet, unlike Elena, she returned to the neighborhood to teach. If she has been to the city, to places outside the Naples, maybe, what is the reason for her return? The most logical explanation is that someone from her family, probably her father, would not support her further education. Seeing the same thing is happening to Lila, Maestra Oliviero may have felt the duty to spare Lila from her own fate, and considered that an early acceptance of Lila's father's decision and not attending middle or high school would dim Lila's passion for learning and spare her the pain of a forced return after she has seen the freedom outside Naples, just like the teacher herself. 2. On the World 2.1 Overview Late 20th century Naples was a place of dramatic economic and political transformation. The recovery from World War II impact was immense, especially considering that Nazi forces had destroyed Neapolitan infrastructure (water, electricity and the sewage system) during their retreat. The eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 1944 destroyed nearby villages and impacted up to 12,000 people, adding to the strain. In the 1950s and 1960s, Naples experienced an enormous construction bloom, featuring the Cassa per il Mezzogiorno industrialization movement in 1950 and the Lauro Era in 1952-1957, a period of significant building bloom which included the creation of the famous Palazzo delle Poste. However, this fast urbanization is met with criticism of the corruption and inefficiency of the government and the disfigurement of Naples's historic sites, such as the Vomero. Many constructions, especially in the suburb, became unused due to structural failures and loss of connection with the main commercial center of the city.

Though post-war Naples seems to be taking leaps and bounds (at least on the surface) in terms of economy, nothing improved for the daily lives of normal citizens. Most lived in bassi, cramped one-story street-level rooms like the ones Elena and Lila lived in during their childhood. Daily life was porous. Chores and events that are private under the modern lens, such as washing, cooking and socializing, ‘spilled’ into the streets and alleys. Many lived in poverty, were unemployed or survived through informal jobs (like the Cerullo's shoe repair business, or Elena's summer jobs), with blurred boundaries between personal and social life. Moreover, the Camorra, a criminal organization similar to the Mafia but with independent clans that took the opportunity to expand under the social and political instability of that time, controlled the city through a mix of loan sharking, extortion, smuggling and direct violence. An example of how this may have affected citizens is the influence of the Solaras on the Cerullo and Caracci business. 2.2 Effect: The Neighborhood Though some would describe history as the overarching trend that is steered only by important figures, it is nevertheless bound tightly to the daily lives of ordinary citizens in an interdependent relationship. History affects the ideals, habits and living conditions of normal citizens, while the actions of the normal citizens change the course of history. The backdrop of My Brilliant Friend and The Story of a New Name, the Neapolitan city and suburb, is an ever-changing social and cultural terrain heavily influenced by historical events from1944 to 1968 as Italy underwent its transformation from post-war disaster to a modern country.

The neighborhood into which Lila and Lenù are born (some speculate that to be the Rione Luzzatti) is an example for such a change. Starting from a depiction of the poverty and violence in the old neighborhood and other regions with even worse conditions (1940s post-war Naples) through the eyes of the two children, the author moves on to the flourishing of businesses and construction of the new buildings during Lenù's middle school days (the 1950s ‘construction boom’), then to a description of the run-down factories in the scene where Elena had sex with Antonio (suburban construction gone unused). In The Story of a New Name, the Cerullo business expanded but was used than marginalized by the Solaras (the Camorra group), and many families even in the old neighborhood started having telephones and cars, with richer people in the city obtaining elevators in their apartments (further industrialization and modernization in the late 1960s). At the end of t he story, Lila and Enzo start learning the basics of programming languages (probably BASIC), signaling the start of the Digital Revolution at the end of the 20th century.

The effects of history on the mundane Neapolitan neighborhood are not limited to physical and technological changes. It also revealed itself in the ideals and cultures of the neighborhood and the city. One example may be the fashion of the city which slowly infiltrates into the neighborhood, starting to appear in the constant comparisons of fashion between the girls and the scene of the ‘girl in green’ during Lila's visit to the city, and slowly strengthening itself through description of the fashionable clothes Lila wore during her romantic relationship with Stefano. Another example is the ongoing exchange of modern ideas, for example feminism, neo-colonialism and socialism, especially in more educated circles, in contrast to the Fascist regime that previously ruled Naples in the early 20th century. 2.3 Effect: People The effect of history on specific people, such as Lila and Lenù , is tied heavily to the environments of their childhood. For both, the normalization violence of the neighborhood in their early years, especially the violence of her family in Lila's case, are strongly imprinted upon them. Although none used violence as a weapon, both were fearful but accustomed to its existence. The domestic abuse against women they have witnessed in their parents' home also caused them to react violently when strangers try to hurt them, but view beatings from a male family member (father or husband) as something for the sake of their ‘education.’

For Elena, the cultural differences and higher education she experienced in the city changed some of her ideals, rooted in her childhood. She learned at the Normale to eat quietly, keep under control the Neapolitan accent in her voice, pretend to be surprised by her own results, behave in a meek, friendly yet tactful way to eliminate enemies and become well-liked. The journals and books lent to her by Professor Galiani introduced ideas of world peace, of socialism, of neo-colonialism and nationalism. Her interactions with Franco Mari introduced her to Communism and helped her develop an anti -Stalinist sensibility, a higher level of understanding of the society than the ones her discussions with Pasquale had caused. S he experienced a change of the status of men and women due to the spread of feminism in Italy. On returning to Naples, she found that everything about her outward complexion has changed, and her family appeared distant to her. She could also not tolerate the sexual abuse of males on the bus to the Soccavo factory, and shouted insults at her attackers instead of pretending not to notice like the neighborhood tradition.

Lila's world, unlike Elena's, is filled with poverty and violence from her childhood to middle age at the end of the second book. She is also acquainted with a more diverse group of people, mostly from the people at the bottom but also some from the middle-class or the upper-class, because of her work at the neighborhood grocery and the shop in Piazza dei Martiri. While political ideologies did not concern her directly, she is familiar with the unemployment and poverty that the people suffered from because of the consequences of the ‘building boom’ and the corruption of the government. She is also more aware of the horror of the Camorra and of the underlying violence of Naples.

Apart from Lila and Elena, other people in the neighborhood are affected by this grander course of history as well. Essentially, The Story of a New Name can be viewed as a collection of small tragedies under the greater pressures of society, to which they have no power against. While they observe the threats of the neighborhood from an external point of view during childhood, when they become adults, they become part of the pattern themselves. Take Antonio, who after he broke up with Lenù and was sent to military service, returned mentally ill, broken, and became the Solara's puppet, running errands for the people that he once despised and hated with all his heart. Another male example may be Stefano, whose gentlemanly traits were overridden by the voice of father, by his shape and his violence that leaped out of his meek features, or Rino, who stopped caring for her sister, and whose sensitive heart was overcome by the desire to win and the distress of it being impossible, becoming a copy of Fernando. Nino, who hated his father and tried to seem outwardly as far from him as possible, became in the end duplicate of Donato. Rinuccio, whose cultured Italian and intelligence his mother has developed during infantry are gradually replaced by the vulgar language and filthy habits of the poor environment he grew up in. They are beaten by their fathers, transformed by their environments, they compete for success, are trampled by society, and inevitably turns into their fathers themselves, continuing this never-ending loop.

For the females, pregnancy is the cage that traps them forever. As Lenù acutely observed, ‘I saw clearly the mothers of the old neighborhood. They were nervous, they were acquiescent. They were silent, with tight lips and stooping shoulders [...] Extremely thin, with hollow eyes and cheeks, or with broad behinds, swollen ankles, heavy chests [...] And good God, they were ten, at most twenty years older than me’ (Ferrante 102). Melina, who sat in the pond during an unusually silent madness attack, ‘dirty, smiling faintly, her light clothes soaked and muddy, the outline of her wasted body visible under the material’ (Ferrante 97). Pinuccia, who after her pregnancy became ‘slovenly, nervous, extremely thin, resigned to her fate, she bore the marks of the beatings that Rino continued to give her’ (Ferrant 439). Marisa, who in the last year before her marriage with Alfonso ‘lost her old liveliness, her effusiveness, and now seemed above all careful not to say anything that might annoy him’ (Ferrante 439). Ada, who had sex with Stefano and was pregnant with her son, and whose furious debate with Lila reminded Lila of ‘the cries of Melina, the abandoned lover [...] the long flame of suffering, which then had much impressed her, was flickering again in Ada; only now it wasn't the wife of Sarratore feeding it but her, Lila. A cruel game of mirrors that at the time escaped us all’ (Ferrante 422). The young girls, formerly fashionable and outside of the violence of the adult world, after marriage and pregnancy become overpowered by the shapes of their husbands, tied to the children who they could not leave, defeated both by the patr iarchal environment of the neighborhood and the domestic abuse by their husbands. Contrary to the boys, who turn into their fathers, the girls are forced back to the paths of their mothers. A cruel game of mirrors, indeed, is being played. 3. On Life 3.1 Why is Life Cruel At the end of the previous part, I likened life to a cruel game of mirrors. Children grow up, turn unavoidably into their parents, following the same path down poverty and violence. But why is life like that? What makes life cruel?

Presuming that we don't go into religious comprehensions, one explanation is that life itself is neutral, that it is the influence of people to a single individual, the pressures of the human society that makes life ‘cruel’. Despite the fact that every person may have acted on their own free will, following the discussion of the previous part, they are still heavily influenced by their culture and by the ‘grander trend’ of history. The ‘building boom’, the widespread violence, the control of the Camorra, the patriarchal society and the trap of poverty contribute to the tragedies of the lives of these Neapolitan children. ‘What is an individual?’ and ‘Can we ever be ‘individual’?’ are questions that the writing frequently asks.

Apart from this, another interpretation is that the misery in life is caused by human consciousness and self-awareness. Under the ‘illusion’ that we have superior intelligence, emotions and experiences, we separate ourselves from nature and are driven to ‘existential panic’, craving for a meaning that does not exist. A famous quote that expressed such a view, ‘human consciousness is a tragic misstep in evolution’, is spoken by Rust Cohle in the movie True Detective. However, the original idea comes from Peter Wessel Zapffe, a Norwegian philosopher inspired by the ideas of Arthur Schopenhauer. This contrasts with Camus, who argues we should rebel against the universe's coldness and create meaning for our lives ourselves. Personally, I agree with Camus's view, and believe that the meaning of life is created through the struggle to find life's meaning itself.

Besides the two most interesting solutions, there are other explanations as well. We may have set the bar of our expectations too high for the neutral life to fulfill. Life may be inherently unjust and cruel. It may have been because of the human race's own evil, or its desires. Life may have had no ‘cruelty’ or meaning, and it is we who make a story out of a string of random events to create a pattern that doesn't actually exist. All these explanations are justifiable and explain the question ‘why is life cruel’ by its own logic.

3.2 Life's Chaos and Linearity After the description of her life at the Normale, Elena was surprised by ‘How easy it is to tell the story of myself without Lila: time quiets down and the important facts slide along the thread of the years like suitcases on a conveyor belt at an airport; you pick them up, put them on the page, and it's done’ (Ferrante 336). In comparison, recounting what happened to Lila was much more ‘complicated’. Her belt of events ‘slow down, accelerates, serves abruptly, goes off the tracks. The suitcases fall off, fly open, their contents scatter here and there. Her things end up among mine’(Ferrante 336).

The simile is an accurate picture of how the lives of Elena and Lila differ. Lenù's life follows a linear, well-trodden path: study hard, get good marks, go to middle school; study hard, get good marks, go to high school; study hard, get good marks, go to university; be engaged, publish a book, earn money. Lila's path, however, seems to swerve off the main road. She was Stefano's fiancé, the rich lady; she was Signora Caracci, beaten by her husband; she was mistress of the grocery and the shop; she was the loving mother of Rinuccio; she runs away with Nino and Enzo, was the friend Lenù; she was a poor and fatigued worker at the Soccavo factory. It is almost as if she is acting unpredictably intentionally. The question, then, is why is Elena's life linear, and why is Lila's life chaotic? What makes life, which is supposed to be a random string of events, differ so greatly between two who grew up together in the same Neapolitan neighborhood?

A possible explanation may be that life lies on the ‘edge of chaos’, between absolute order and complete randomness. This is supported by the existence of both quantum mechanics (which is probabilistic) and general relativity (which is deterministic) in our current perception of the universe. Whether an individual's life can be linear or chaotic, then, depends on the will of the individual themselves. By following a stable, direct path, Elena pushes the scale of life a little bit to the ‘order’ side, which is why her life is so linear. By refusing to follow that path, Lila pushes the scale a little bit to the ‘chaos’, making her life chaotic. But why?

It can be shown in the book that Lenù has a tendency to ‘build’, and Lila has a tendency to ‘destroy’. Over time, Elena adds, brick by brick, onto the persona she is building around herself: a good student. A wall to protect herself, but also unintentionally caging her, as she recognized more and more later in her life. She could no longer escape that persona, for the ‘ego’ is too strong to beat over the ‘id’, the ‘outer self’ over the ‘inner self’. Abandoning the path she has forged for half a lifetime would be denying her entire existence, denying all of her choices from childhood to adulthood. In a way, Elena's self is weaker than Lila's which is why she has to build an armor around herself to get a sense of who she really is.

Lila, however, has always been wary of any path that seems too certain. She has a greater sense of self and thus greater courage to face the unknown and the unpredictable. To her, anything around her that may cage her in has to be destroyed, and often she does so in a direct and violent way. By having sex with Nino, she escapes the form of Stefano that has been occupying her. By running away with Enzo, she breaks the entire identity of Signora Caracci. By throwing The Blue Fairy into the fire, she denies her childhood self, or at least one form of Lila that Lenù has attributed to her. By disappearing at the age of sixty -six into the margins of life, she successfully defies all of her former existence, a feat Lenù is unable to do. A greater, more intense desire for freedom and for rebellion, until she even defies the cage of existence itself. Destroying everything one builds is, perhaps, the only way to truly stay free in the world.

Is it worth it? Personally, I find it better to balance ‘building’ and ‘destroying’, for finding joy and meaning is as important as being free in life. One way is to unconsciously have many forms (or identities) available that one can take on and alternate between them as one wish or according to the social context. Rotating around hobbies of different types is also useful for remaining anchored (at least from the tip of the string) while also staying relatively free. For example, math is a very good tool for countering dissolving margins. Another method is minimizing superfluous social interactions and focus only on the deepest bonds apart from spending most of the time alone, which allows one to be free from outside influence. Ultimately, the question of whether freedom is worth the continued process of destruction is up to how much value one gives to freedom, and what the definition of freedom is for the person.

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Page 47

Response to ‘The Subtle Knife’

‘The Subtle Knife’

The students read Philip Pullman’s ‘The Subtle Knife’ and were asked to respond to it in a ‘personal’ way. They were encouraged to be as informal as they liked, and as unceremonious as they wanted – so long as they grounded what they said in an understanding of the novel. The results are intriguing as the students reacted in very different ways. Most mused on certain things in the book which reminded them of their own lives; one decided to respond in an unconventional manner, also using images to supplement what she said, thus changing the way we read her words.

In Philip Pullman’s ‘The Subtle Knife’, the story revolves around Lyra and her friend, Will, on the quest between worlds and the constant struggle against the Spectres, the Magisterium and various dehumanising forces in our modern world. Although it seems that the book is about government control and free thinking, more ideas like parenting, love, and the structured view of adults are introduced.

Especially when Lyra meets her mother and Will finds his father and loses him, we think about the parents of these children and how they have been. Lyra’s mother is not present during her whole growing up process; the same with Will and his father. Influenced by Asriel, Lyra dislikes the Magisterium her mother works for and is given power by, which is against what her mother wants to tell her. Every time they meet, the feeling of untrustworthiness and being surrounded by enemies is clear, even if Lyra wishes to have a good relationship with her mother and Mrs. Coulter loves her daughter.

Will has taken up the responsibility to take care of his mother. He sacrificed his own freedom, the normal childhood experiences, and friendship among kids, for his father’s lack of presence. However, when they meet, he is full of anger, questions and accusation towards him. His father is shocked to see him; he then tells him the responsibility of the ‘knife bearer’ and what his future will look like and what responsibilities he will take on. Just as Will is beginning to feel the bond between him and his father that has been missing his whole life, John Parry is killed. Will is then again thrown to a valley of isolation, negligence and responsibility for his mother.

Adults have a very structured view of the world. For example, most parents believe that when we attend international school, we need to apply for good foreign colleges, and study in majors like STEM, psychology, and literature. There are certain choices that we think we’re making, but all we’re really choosing is whether to go abroad to study (usually by applying for a select few colleges), or not. Children are led to believe they should listen to their parents, get good grades, develop hobbies like sports or instruments, join the student leadership groups, and then get defined as a ‘good student’. This reflects a lot about what the book talks about. The Magisterium wants people to think that they are supposed to work hard, be decent and work for them. All these things are labels of being ‘successful’ and assumes that having knowledge means ‘superiority’.

However, when it comes to parenting, the real world is the opposite of the protagonist’s family. Parents often spend too much attention on kids, and when they sacrifice for kids, they expect high achievement and often get disappointed. This leads to a major problem between parents and children. The reality and the book are two opposites that both are not beneficial to a parent-child relationship. Children should be able to explore the world as they wish, and parents should educate kids as who the kids are and depending on the child’s needs. Instead of total isolation or overt obsession, a healthy relationship is supposed to be mutual for both.

I think ‘The Subtle Knife’ is a story filled with magic.

For example, the story contains much about Christianity, saying that Lyra is the ‘second Eve’. In the old story, the one in the Bible, Eve had eaten the forbidden fruit and had the ability to gain knowledge. Lyra had the power to read the alethiometer because she had more ‘knowledge’ than other people, was more open-minded.

Also in the story are the Spectres, which have a special meaning. Adults are afraid of the Spectres because they eat their souls. What this really means is that adults are more attached to reality and are more mature than children, which gives them less imagination. They only believe what is reasonably likely to happen, not like children who have the ability to think whatever they like, and to believe those thoughts.

In the story, there are many characters, and they tend to be divided into ‘good’ and ‘bad’ , with the bad characters wanting to control Dust – in other words, control what people think. Remember the scene in Mary Malone’s laboratory, for example? She had an experiment where she puts wires on Lyra’s head and what pops out is a signal from her brain reminding her to meet Will. So, controlling Dust is the same as controlling how people think.

Lyra and Will have big responsibilities in the story. What they do and how they think foreshadows Lyra losing her power and eventually becoming an adult. In addition, Will’s father dies just after they met. I think Lyra and Will are learning important things about life during their adventure, which will turn them into adults.

If I was in the story, I would definitely be like Lee Scoresby (or maybe another random character), because I don’t want to be ‘special’. All Lee wants to do after the mission is to lead a normal life. Being like Lyra, who has special abilities, would put too much pressure on me.

We read ‘The Subtle Knife’ and I had similar feelings about one part of it – the connection between parents and children. In the story, the readers find out that Mrs Coulter is a cruel woman – at least, I think so. She can take the life of the most important witch without blinking an eye, just for asking where Lyra is. On the one hand, she is a caring, soft woman that loves her daughter. But on the other hand, she only cares about the things that Lyra has done, no matter whether they are good or not. If she thinks something is good for Lyra, she will do it.

My own thinking is that Mrs Coulter sees herself as Lyra. They look similar because of genetic reasons but, more than this, Lyra’s personality and characteristics make her feel ‘safe’ and that there is a connection. I think she wants to make Lyra part of herself, so everything she does has a reason and a purpose.

I don’t know if this connection is a healthy one or not. The emotions and feelings, and the things they do are too complicated and cause misunderstanding, but I don’t like this way of connecting with your parents.

Just as an example, here is a small story about a friend of mine. Her mom and her dad’s mom, i.e., her grandma, don’t really like each other. Every week, she and her brother went to her grandma’s house to have dinner. Her grandma often says things like, ‘Your mom was not the first woman your father had, meaning my friend’s mom is a stepmother. Although her mom doesn’t actually say bad things about her, my friend ways the way they connect to each other makes her feel that they are not a family but a pair of enemies. Reading ‘The Subtle Knife’ reminded me that families are complicated things.

In another part, why does Lee Scoresby appear to be so normal? I think it’s because of the way he thinks, the practical way he uses things, and the many details that seem to be ‘true’. He has a gun, which he uses for killing, whereas others can read an alethiometer and have a knife that can cut through to other worlds. He seems so ordinary and much closer to our own lives.

People always feel safe when they are in a totally strange and odd world and, suddenly, a normal thing or person appears. That’s why I felt sad when Lee died – a close, familiar thing disappearing from a strange world. After which the world becomes strange and odd again. Sometimes, I just want the world to be calm and ordinary and unremarkable.

The Subtle Knife by Philip Pullman is the second book in the His Dark Materials series. Before reading it, I thought it would just be a normal fantasy adventure with magic, action, and maybe some cool battles.

The Supplement 6, p. 50
The Supplement 6, p. 50

And yeah, the book definitely has those things. But it also has a lot of confusing ideas, nonstop sadness, and enough deep conversations to make my brain feel tired. Reading this book was honestly like eating spicy food that tastes good but also hurts at the same time.

At the beginning of the story, Lyra leaves her own world after the events of the first book and enters a strange city called Cittàgazze. The city is creepy because almost no adults are there anymore.

The Supplement 6, p. 51
The Supplement 6, p. 51
The Supplement 6, p. 51
The Supplement 6, p. 51

That’s because these weird monsters called Spectres attack adults and basically suck away their souls. Yeah I know that the ghosts are bad. Kids are mostly safe from them, which honestly sounds unfair but also convenient for the plot. The city itself actually sounded pretty cool at first — empty streets, abandoned houses, silence everywhere — kinda like one of those apocalypse movies where everyone disappears overnight.

The Supplement 6, p. 52
The Supplement 6, p. 52
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The Supplement 6, p. 52

While exploring the city, Lyra meets Will, a boy from our world. Will is already going through a horrible time because he accidentally killed a man while trying to protect his mother. So right away the book throws you into stress and drama. There’s basically no happy intro like, “Oh look, adventure!” Nope. It’s immediately trauma time. What I'm going to do – Will eventually finds the subtle knife, which is probably the coolest thing in the whole book. ( I will like the alethiometre more if I can read it) The knife can literally cut openings between different worlds. That idea is actually awesome. Imagine slicing the air like paper and stepping into another universe.

I can’t lie, that part made me think the story was about to become super exciting.

The Supplement 6, p. 53
The Supplement 6, p. 53
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The Supplement 6, p. 53

But then the book became fifty percent adventure and fifty percent people talking about complicated stuff that made me feel like I accidentally walked into a philosophy class.

Everybody in the story suddenly wants the knife. Witches want it. Scientists want it. Religious people want it. Random creepy old men want it. It honestly felt like the knife was the last PlayStation on Earth during Black Friday. Lyra and Will spend almost the entire book running away from people, trying not to die, and being emotionally stressed 24/7.

And honestly? I started feeling bad for them.Will especially cannot catch a break. The knife literally cuts off two of his fingers when hebecomes its new owner.Imagine becoming the chosen hero and immediately losing fingers as a welcome gift.

The Supplement 6, p. 54
The Supplement 6, p. 54
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The Supplement 6, p. 54

That’s crazy. The poor guy is injured, stressed, sleep-deprived, and emotionally exhausted for basically the whole story. Every time things start looking slightly ok for him, something terrible happens. I bet Philip Pullman looked at Will and thought, ‘What if this kid suffered even more?’

Lyra is still one of the more fun characters because she’s brave, stubborn, and sometimes kinda chaotic, but even she becomes more serious and stressed in this book. In the first book she felt more energetic and adventurous. Here she spends a lot of time confused, worried, or listening to adults explain mysterious universe stuff.

The Supplement 6, p. 55
The Supplement 6, p. 55
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The Supplement 6, p. 55

And there is SO MUCH mysterious universe stuff. The main thing everyone keeps talking about is ‘Dust’. Dust is supposed to connect to consciousness, knowledge, growing up, and probably ten other things I still don’t fully understand. Half the conversations in this book sound really smart, but sometimes I genuinely had no clue what people were saying anymore. Characters would talk for pages about science, religion, destiny, and the meaning of life while I sat there thinking, ‘Okay but are we gonna continue the story, or what?’

That was probably my biggest problem with the book. It tries really hard to sound deep all the time. And sometimes it works! Some ideas are actually interesting. But other times it just felt exhausting. Like bro, calm down for one second. Not every sentence needs to sound like it belongs in a university lecture.

The Supplement 6, p. 56
The Supplement 6, p. 56
The Supplement 6, p. 56
The Supplement 6, p. 56

The pacing also felt weird. Some parts are super exciting with fights, escapes, and dangerous moments. Then suddenly everything slows down because two adults start having a ten-page conversation about philosophy. It felt like the book couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. An action adventure? A fantasy mystery? A giant metaphor about religion and human nature? Somehow it tries to be all of them at once.

Still, I can’t say the book is boring. Some scenes were genuinely really cool. The world-building is creative, and the idea of multiple universes connected together is awesome. Cittàgazze especially has a creepy vibe that I liked. The abandoned city full of invisible soul-eating monsters actually sounds like a pretty good horror game.

But, wow, this book is depressing sometimes. One thing I also didn’t really like was the romance between Will and Lyra. I know a lot of people think their relationship is sweet, but to me it felt kinda awkward and sad more than romantic. Most of the time they’re just stressed, injured, running for their lives, or dealing with emotional trauma. That doesn’t exactly scream ‘cute romance’. It’s more like two exhausted kids trying not to completely fall apart.

The Supplement 6, p. 57
The Supplement 6, p. 57
The Supplement 6, p. 57
The Supplement 6, p. 57

Their relationship also feels really serious all the time. There’s barely any light or fun moments between them. No normal kid energy. No joking around much. Just constant emotional damage and destiny stuff. Sometimes it felt like the author was trying SO hard to make their bond deep and meaningful that it became a little too dramatic.

And honestly, the romance made me more sad than emotional in a good way. Will and Lyra care about each other a lot, but the whole relationship has this doomed feeling hanging over it. Instead of being exciting, it mostly made me think, ‘Wow, these kids seriously need therapy and a vacation.’

I guess their relationship works for the story because they understand each other better than anyone else does, but personally I didn’t really enjoy the romance part. It felt less like a normal connection and more like two people bonding over nonstop suffering.

The Supplement 6, p. 58
The Supplement 6, p. 58
The Supplement 6, p. 58
The Supplement 6, p. 58

Nobody smiles. Nobody relaxes. Nobody gets a normal day. Every chapter feels like somebody is injured, crying, hunted, betrayed, or questioning the meaning of existence. Even the adults are miserable. The whole story has this heavy serious mood all the time. After a while I kinda wanted someone in the book to just sit down and eat pizza or something.

Another thing that annoyed me was how many adults act weirdly obsessed with controlling children. Seriously, almost every grown-up character is trying to use Lyra or Will for some giant plan. It gets repetitive after a while. Like please leave these poor k ids alone for FIVE MINUTES.

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The Supplement 6, p. 59

The ending also frustrated me a little because it leaves so many questions unanswered. The book basically ends by saying, ‘Congrats, now go read the next one.’ Which is annoying when you already spent hundreds of pages trying to understand Dust and parallel universes.

At the same time, I understand why lots of people love this book. It’s unique and ambitious. It doesn’t talk down to younger readers, and it’s full of creative ideas. Compared to some fantasy books that just copy the same dragons-and-swords formula, ‘The Subtle Knife’ actually tries to do something different.

But personally, I didn’t enjoy it as much as I hoped I would. Sometimes reading it felt less like going on an adventure and more like doing very emotional homework. Cool homework, maybe, but still homework.

Overall, ‘The Subtle Knife’ has amazing imagination, strong characters, and some really cool fantasy ideas. But it’s also confusing, super serious, and emotionally exhausting. I respect the book more than I actually enjoyed it. If you like deep stories with philosophy and dark themes, you’ll probably love it. But if you just want a fun fantasy adventure, prepare yourself for endless suffering, mysterious Dust speeches, and children carrying the stress level of forty -year-old adults.

The Supplement 6, p. 60
The Supplement 6, p. 60
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Page 61

On Revenge: A response to ‘True Grit’

Revenge stories

After reading the novel ‘True Grit’, students were asked to provide their own brief revenge stories, no matter how trivial or banal their circumstances.

It happened again.

My ID card had been stolen.

And I knew who did it.

But this time, I wanted to get revenge. I wanted to teach her a deep and meaningful lesson.

I was in my regular, boring math class. All the math problems were written on the whiteboard behind my seat. I had to turn around many times just to see the questions and answer them. Every time I move my body, my ID card makes an irritating sound that distracts my brain from working through all the problems. The sound distracted me, so I took my ID card off and put it on my desk. I did not think about anyone touching it because everyone had their own, and there was no need to steal from others. Math class was very long and boring, so I walked to the bathroom to waste some time and rest my brain. When I came back to the classroom, I noticed that my ID card was not on my desk. I got anxious and felt really not good. I checked under my desk, my pencil case, and my school bag lots of time. But I still cannot find it. I could not buy lunch without my ID card. Suddenly, I knew the girl who took my ID-card she always steals people’s ID-cards just for fun, to make me feel nervous and make me like someone who does not know what to do. I was really frustrated because of that, and it was not funny. Thinking of it, I wanted revenge on her. I wanted her to feel others felt nervous and bad when she stole their ID-card just for a joke. I planned what I was going to do. During the 5 minutes break, that girl left her seat and went to the bathroom. I saw her Id-card on her desk and pretended to go get tape on the teacher's desk and grabbed her ID-card. I put her ID card on the very top of the shelf where she definitely can’t reach. She is quite a short person, no way to reach that high even with the chairs for support. After a long time, she noticed that her ID card was gone. She looked everywhere, not only close to her desk but also in all the places in the classroom. Finally, she found it on the top of the shelf, she jumped as high as she could, but still could not reach the card. Her face was really funny, and now she was the person who feels like someone does not know who she is. In the end, she asked her tall friend to help her up to get her ID-card down from the top of the shelf. I think my revenge was fair. She started the problem first and forced me to get back to her. It was needed and necessary. After the revenge, she never wanted to touch my things.

The field in YK Pao had a strong grassy smell. I sat beside the field and was sweating already. June in Shanghai was brutal. ‘Heads!’ The voice came too late. The frisbee sliced into my face with a fast speed. My nose hurt instantly, and my eyes watered, even though my glasses protect my eyes a little. I blinked and saw Peter, grinning like he'd won something big. He'd been doing this stuff for weeks ‘accidentally’ flying frisbees near me, bumping me in the halls, always with that smirk. ‘I’m sorry Jz,’ he yelled, not sounding sorry at all. ‘You should pay attention.’

Something cold and hard woke up in my chest. It wasn't just embarrassment. It felt older, deeper. It tasted like copper in your mouth, you can also taste there is blood in your mouth, maybe your mouth isn’t bleeding. I'd been swallowing it for too long. I wiped my nose. No blood, but it throbbed. Peter turned away, already laughing towards me, the white frisbee hanging from his hand like a prize. Not this time. I stood up slowly. The afternoon sun pushed down on me. I walked toward him, not running yet. My sneakers sank into the warm grass. Peter heard me coming. His smile flickered, just a little. ‘Jz 我错了’ which means ‘Jason I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It was just a…’ I snatched the frisbee from his loose grip. The plastic felt smooth and warm. ‘Hey!’ I hurled it hard. Not at his face—I wasn't him—but at his chest. It knocked the wind out of him. He gasped, stumbled back, waving his arms, and crashed down on the grass. The field went silent. Even the other frisbee players stopped throwing. Peter stared up at me, eyes wide and wet, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish. For a second, I saw myself in his face—shocked, hurt, embarrassed. Then, a sudden sensation of happiness. But then something else slid in. Not guilt, really. Something more empty. I'd imagined this moment for days, lying in bed, planning what I'd do, how tough I'd look. In my head, I won. But here, now, Peter just looked small. And I felt tired. The sun still burned. The grass still smelled green and sharp. Nothing had changed. ‘Oh shit!’ Peter shouted, but his voice had no bite. I dropped the frisbee. It landed with a soft thud, then rolled a little on the uneven ground. ‘Now we're the same,’ I said. My voice sounded weird, like I was talking with my stomach. I walked back to the side of the field. My nose still hurt, then I walk toward the nurse. My hands shook a little, and I pressed them flat on the splintered wood to hide it. The bell would ring soon. The day would go on. I hope I can stay in nurse for a while so that I can go late for class for some minutes. Peter would keep messing with me, or maybe he wouldn't. That moment when the frisbee hit him, his breath ‘stopping’, the shock on his face, already felt far away, like a movie I'd watched the man that shoot by a gun. What I really wanted, I figured out, wasn't just hitting him with the frisbee. I wanted him to feel what I felt when the frisbee hit on me, to carry that feeling, that hurt feeling for a while. But people don't understand each other like that. We just pass pain back and forth, both of us thinking we're finally getting even. The bell rang. I stood up, threw my backpack on, and walked towards the school doors without looking back.

Our swimming class ended in the afternoon. The changing room was full of people. Water dripped from our hair and clothes. Everyone was tired after swimming. I dried my feet with a towel. I wanted to put on my shoes and go outside.

I put my shoes on a bench beside me. Just as I was ready to wear them, he smiled and grabbed my shoes quickly. Then he turned around and ran away. It all happened before I could do anything or realise what was happening.

I stood there with bare wet feet. I felt surprised and upset. I was exhausted after the swimming and just wanted to get dressed, get out of there, and go home. I called out to Lucas and asked him to give my shoes back.

‘Come back!’ I shouted.

But he just laughed and kept running. He held my shoes up high. All the other students saw this and laughed too. My feet were cold on the hard floor. I could not run after him easily because my feet were wet and slippery.

Lucas ran round the benches. He did not want to return my shoes. He played this funny trick on me for a long time. I knew he was not really bad. He just loved to play jokes on his friends.

Still, I wanted to do something to get back at him.

Even a small revenge is better than none.

I looked around the changing room. Soon, I saw Lucas’s shoes. They were on a quiet corner of the bench. No one was near them. A good idea came to my mind. I walked slowly to his bench. I looked around to make sure no one was watching me. Then I poured liquid soap deep inside one of his shoes. I pushed it down hard so he could not see it at once.

Three minutes later, Lucas arrived back with my shoes.

He had got bored with his little game. He walked back to me and without a word, threw my shoes on the ground. I put them on right away, not saying a word and acting like nothing had happened.

Lucas felt happy and relaxed. He walked to his own shoes. He picked them up and put them on, without thinking. He stood up and took his first step.

Suddenly, his foot slid inside the shoe. The soap was very slippery. He lost his balance and stumbled. He almost fell down. His face looked so confused. All the people in the changing room laughed loudly again.

Lucas pulled off his shoe and looked inside. He found the soap at once. He knew I had played a trick on him. He looked at me and started to laugh. I laughed too. We both thought it was funny.

But I laughed loudest because I thought my trick was better than his, which is the whole point of revenge.

In seventh grade, there was a kid named Nino—emotional, easily triggered, with almost no impulse control back then (though he's much better now). Revenge usually needs time, but I've always preferred to serve it fresh, right when the wound is still hot. So there we were during lunch recess, sun pouring down, playing frisbee like normal kids on a normal day. On defense, Nino thought an opponent pushed him, and when no one heard him call the violation, he lost it completely. The frisbee was in my hand at that moment, so he ran at me and pushed me hard to the ground—completely out of nowhere. It didn't hurt at all, but something inside me caught fire. My whole body burned. I didn't think about teachers, detention, or consequences. I just ran at him, threw him into a chokehold, body-slammed him onto the grass, and let a few trash words fly while I was at it. It felt wonderful—pure, stupid, satisfying revenge. And since I was already in the zone, buy one get one free, I gifted him another kick while he was still on the ground. That evening, Nino returned to his senses like a storm finally passing. He apologized, and I realized my own body had been burning just as irrationally as his. I had overreacted—spectacularly, violently—so I apologized too. No teachers ever found out. No detention. No consequences. The whole thing evaporated into the memory of a single reckless afternoon. Now, Nino and I are still friends. We still throw the frisbee sometimes when the weather is good. Neither of us brings up that day, but I know we both remember it—the heat, the slam, the kick, and the strange relief of being forgiven when you didn't really deserve it. What I learned is that revenge doesn't have to be patient and cold. Sometimes it's immediate and stupid and satisfying as hell. And sometimes, if you're lucky, the person you slammed into the grass will still call you a friend the next day. That's the part no revenge story ever tells you— that anger can burn bright and fast, but real friendship can survive the fire. We were just two seventh-grade idiots who lost control for sixty seconds and somehow found grace on the other side. No grudges. No scars. Just a funny, ugly, beautiful memory of a time when we were both smaller, dumber, and a whole lot more flammable. Ethan, Grade 8 In the Summer, Wallace went to the summer camp in German. After a long time of taking the plane, he and his family finally arrived at the Hamburg airport. They are extremely tired, so they decided to go to a restaurant for a quick dinner.

The cozy, near-empty restaurant smelled of fresh bread and roasted potatoes, seeming like the perfect spot for a simple meal. Wallace seated his younger sister, and his parents settled down, flipping through the bilingual menu. Minutes later, a rigid middle-aged server approached. He had a stern, angular face and a spotless uniform, with no hint of warmth or politeness. He stood stiffly by the table and uttered one flat word: ‘Order.’

Caught off guard, Wallace’s mom spoke gently. ‘Excuse me, my daughter has a mild gluten allergy. Could you tell us if the potato soup contains wheat thickener?’

The server’s pen froze. He shot them a dismissive glance. ‘The menu lists all ingredients. Read it yourself.’

‘We just got off a long international flight,’ Wallace’s dad reasoned calmly. ‘We’re unfamiliar with the local menu. A quick clarification would help us out.’

‘This is not a tourist help desk,’ the server snapped sharply. ‘Order standard dishes, or leave. No special questions, no exceptions.’

Nineteen-year-old Wallace watched the exchange quietly. His embarrassed mother fell silent, and his sister shrank back timidly. The family had done nothing but ask a polite, necessary safety question, yet the server treated them like troublesome intruders.

‘We’re not asking for substitutions,’ Wallace said steadily. ‘We’re confirming dietary safety. That’s basic service.’

The server’s gaze turned icy. ‘I don’t cater to lazy tourists who can’t read. Order now, or vacate the table.’

His father prepared to back down to avoid conflict, but Wallace stopped him. Calm and unyielding, he gave his order. ‘I’ll have your largest pork schnitzel, four roasted asparagus sides, and two glasses of house red wine. Also, bring every condiment you have, each in a separate small bowl.’

Irritated by the extra work but unable to refuse a paying customer, the server nodded stiffly.

‘Will be brought.’

Confused, Wallace’s mom leaned in. ‘Why order so much? We can’t finish it.’

Wallace simply replied, ‘We don’t have to.’

Ten minutes later, the server returned with the full spread, arranging the food and condiments with mechanical, rigid precision. Wallace pulled out exact cash to cover the bill and set it on the table—no tip included.

The server’s eyes narrowed. ‘No tip?’

‘You didn’t earn one,’ Wallace said flatly.

‘I served your order promptly,’ the server retorted angrily. ‘You owe a tip for full service.’

‘You completed your tasks by the book,’ Wallace countered, ‘but you offered no real service. You were rude to a tired family, mocked our legitimate allergy concern, and hid behind rigid rules to be unkind. Tips reward decency, not just robotic compliance.’

‘You’re disrespecting local staff!’ the server snapped, his professional mask fully broken.

‘I’m holding you accountable,’ Wallace said. ‘You hate disruptions to your rigid routine, so I gave you extra tedious work on purpose. I didn’t cause a scene, but I made you face the inconvenience you force on polite customers.’

He tapped his phone. ‘I also left a fully verified review with your exact words, noting your hostile attitude and refusal to assist with basic dietary safety. The food quality is fine—your service is not.’ The server paled instantly. Small local bistros relied heavily on online reviews, and a single credible complaint could cost him his job or the restaurant dozens of tourist customers. ‘You can’t do that,’ he said tightly, panic edging his voice.

‘I can,’ Wallace replied plainly. ‘You chose to be unkind for no reason. I chose to give you quiet, fair consequences.’

He gestured for his family to stand, leaving the untouched feast on the table. They walked out into the warm summer evening, while the server stood frozen, his rigid composure shattered, staring at the mess of unnecessary work he’d been forced to do.

‘That was calm and effective,’ Wallace’s dad said, clapping his shoulder.

Wallace glanced back at the server frantically tidying the table to regain control. ‘Loud revenge is childish. The best reckoning is quiet, precise, and tailored to what someone deserves. He loves his perfect, unchanging routine. I broke it—permanently.’

It was a realistic, unceremonious vengeance: no anger, no drama, just well -earned consequences for unnecessary cruelty.

It is the third time.

The third.

Two or one may have been good, but not a third.

15¥.

The third day in a row. The third coke stolen.

15¥.

At first, I thought one of the teachers accidentally took it from the fridge. The second time, something is a little off about this. No teacher can make a same mistake two times. Can they? No, definitely not. So, it’s impossible to be the same person, unless it is done intentionally. I started to feel my face go slightly red. A brief flashback came from third grade, me being stolen of my pens and needing to wait for four days until I found that somebody intentionally took it. But I am not ‘third grade George’ anymore. I will destroy them and make them suffer.

I immediately called to Jimmy: ‘Hey, Jimmy I got a job for you. Find out who stole my coke I will give you 200¥!’

Jimmy, as being Jimmy of course, immediately agreed and set of bounty into the school’s black market as bounty-hunters searched out of the whole grade into 7th, then 8th then 9th. As I suspected, today, another coke disappeared, even though I had been standing guard the whole time. Jimmy ran to me and reported: ‘Aiden (one of the most skilled people in the school’s black market) found a group of tweets (slang for group of girls) sharing one with a marker stain for my 100¥ bounty. That’s yours.’

I immediately felt blood pumping in my ears. Taking my stuff without my permission is the best and quickest way to make me super angry. I felt anger boiling in my chest and heard my breath become harder as I muttered curses. Then I told Jimmy: ‘Do me a favour. Those tweets are gonna pay a high price for my entertainment. Then they’ll know never to cross George!’ I plotted the whole night and muttered curses, feeling anger boil inside me and shouting out loud whenever I was thinking about it. The whole night, I couldn’t sleep, knowing that the teacher can’t help me and I could only do it alone. And that they are gonna pay a thousand trillion times the price of what they inflicted upon me.

The next day, Jimmy brought me back what I required: A flask of soap, a small glass of sodium chloride from the school lab (not fatal but enough to give a gigantic fit when consuming it), and some laxative (I love this stuff so much, I bought two jars of it in the after this event). I decided to bring some sugar to make the flavour right. I first poured out most of the coke and poured soap, all the sodium chloride, two laxative pills and some sugar with water to dilute it. After countless tries, I happily concluded that there will be no difference in the smell or whatever and excitedly jumped up and down, trying to contain my happiness and satisfaction, and put it into the fridge, feeling as if I won the lottery and thinking which tweet would have an excellent stomach ache first, and hoping that I did not waste this bottle of coke for nothing. I’m gonna make them have the worst stomach ache as possible! What a tragedy (or comedy) it would be to witness.

Ending plot 1: Another day passed, but by the end of the day, a ‘tragedy’ happily happened. It seemed that some 9th grade girls had went to the school nurse and had a terrible fit. I felt an unknown sense of pride and satisfaction, and congratulated myself for being right again with a bottle of Red Bull. I won this game and taught those idiots a lesson of never to steal stuff. However, I did feel such a tinge of remorse and sadness for them, though it was quickly replaced by anger again, with me thinking: Well, they actually do deserve it somehow. Let them suffer. They didn’t even change when I sent out the warning shot of giving them the letter to tell them nicely to stop! I am a nice guy, you know, but after they crossed the Red Line, it’s their problem So this is revenge. Satisfaction now, a very small amount of remorse later.

Ending Plot 2: Another day passed, but by the end of the day, a ‘tragedy’ happily happened. It seemed that some 9th grade girls had went to the school nurse and had a terrible fit. I felt an unknown sense of pride and satisfaction, and congratulated myself for being right again with a bottle of coke. I won this game and taught those idiots a lesson of never to steal stuff. However, the coke tasted a little funny. Later, I started puking and went to the toilet several times. I then went to the school nurse and realised I had drunk the backup bottle of Coke with all the ‘ingredients’ in it. So, this is revenge. You always need to pay something back. You cannot do wild justice for free. A sacrifice is always needed.

I remember back in second or third grade, there was a boy named Gabriel in my class. We’d been trading trash talk all morning over some silly thing I can’t even recall now. When it’s recess, I was laughing with my friends right in the middle of the field when I suddenly felt a sharp jab. I yelped and spun around—there was Gabriel, holding a thin stick and snickering at me.

‘Quit staring at me, dummy,’ he said, flicking the stick at the ground.

I could feel my face burning up. Half the field was looking our way, and I was so angry and embarrassed I could barely speak. ‘What is wrong with you?’ I shouted, my fists clenched at my sides. ‘That wasn’t even funny!’ ‘Oh, scared now?’ he taunted, taking a step back. ‘You started the trash talk first. Can’t take a joke?’

That did it. I took off after him, sprinting as fast as my legs could carry me around the track. Gabriel was fast, but I was angrier, and I caught up to him by the monkey bars. I grabbed the back of his t-shirt hard, yanked him to a stop, and started hitting with every bit of strength I had. I still remember clear as day. I punched him so hard his glasses smacked right into his face, and I kicked him hard in the stomach when he doubled over. It felt incredible, all that hot anger pouring out I didn’t even want to stop. I only pulled back when I heard a kid yell from behind me:

‘Ms. Mac coming! I’m going to tell! You two are fighting!’ (By the way, Ms. Mac was our homeroom teacher)

I stepped back, chest heaving, and a minute later our teacher came hurrying over, her face tight with anger. She bent down to Gabriel first, helping him adjust his broken glasses and asking if he was okay. Then she said: ‘Both of you. Explain. Right now.’ Her voice was sharp abrasive. Gabriel mumbled that he’d poked me with the stick first, but he added that I’d called him names first too. I burst out right away: ‘He poked me in front of everyone! It was embarrassing! He started it!’

Ms. Mac led both of us back into the school building. When we got to her classroom, she pulled two blank reflection sheets out of her desk and slid them across the table to us.

‘I don’t care who started it,’ she said. ‘Fighting is never the answer. Both of you will write what you did wrong, both of you will be in detention for the rest of the week. Do you understand?’

I just stared at the paper. It wasn’t fair! I was the one he picked on! I still think that sometimes, even now. But that was a long time ago, and I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. Now I know I should’ve just ignored him and walked away. I shouldn’t have wasted all that energy chasing a fight, trying to get one-up on him with shots like some UFC fighter, just because he was being a jerk looking for a reaction.

Revenge never actually makes it even. It just keeps the fight going. At some point, someone must stop the cycle and that’s why revenge never was and never will be justified.

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Page 73

Poems

In the future, cars can fly above the roadIn the future, robots will cook dinner for usIn the future, schools will exist inside VRIn the future, people can talk to animalsIn the future, houses can fly and move to different citiesIn the future, we will grow food on the moonIn the future, clothes will change colour with our moodIn the future, doctors can print new organsIn the future, rain will taste like orange juiceIn the future, sleep will only take ten minutesIn the future, everyone will be invincibleIn the future, we can download knowledge directly to our brainsIn the future, doors will open just by looking at themIn the future, clouds can be shaped by remote controlsIn the future, books will read themselves aloud to youIn the future, shoes can walk for you when you are tiredIn the future, we can breathe underwaterIn the future, windows will stop us from seeing through themIn the future, shadows will have different coloursIn the future, people will be able to speak without opening their mouthsIn the future, food will be unnecessaryIn the future, food will be provided to aliensIn the future, aliens will kill all of usIn the future, everyone will be richIn the future, snow will turn into octopusesIn the future, cacti will no longer have thornsIn the future, the sky will be redIn the future, water will be greenIn the future, humans will be blueIn the future, elephants will take overIn the future, all these things will and will not happen.

In the future, birds will be made of metal(Metal hearts, metal wings, metal head).In the future, there will be no more cash(Only non-visible money).In the future, books will become antiques(No more books in the world – only online sources).In the future, food will be a fantasy(And there will be more types).In the future, love will be the same as it is today(Your heart will tell you what love is).In the future, schools will be bigger(Each school will be the size of a small town).In the future, cars will fly(Technology will enable this).In the future, music will be a culture(People will create and listen to their own music).

Obedience and Disobedience

I follow rules where order lies,A quiet path, with steady eyes.I walk the line, I heed the call,Obedience keeps my world standing tall.

But when the truth is hid in shade,When right is lost, and fears parade,I lift my voice, I break the chain,Disobedience lights the rain.

Obedience is the calm, soft stream,That follows banks, as it may seem.Disobedience is the fire’s spark,That burns the dark, to mark a new start.

One bends to what the world demands,One fights to hold its own true stands.Both live inside the beating chest—To yield, to rise, to question, to test.

In the future, birds will be cold robotsIn the future, money’s cheap as grassy spotsIn the future, food’s tasteless, just for health’s plotsIn the future, books live on phone and iPad dotsIn the future, cars will fly through cloudy knotsIn the future, music loses joyful spotsIn the future, love’s a thing no one spotsIn the future, death’s as plain as water potsIn the future, I’ll become a ghostly ghost.

In the future.In the future, birds teach humans how to flyIn the future, money will not be worthyIn the future, food is going to be globalizedIn the future, no one reads booksIn the future, cars can fly and swimIn the future, music will be made by AIIn the future, love will not exist anymoreIn the future, death will be predictedIn the future, I will stop daydreaming.

Pieces of Cardboard

When I was young, I loved to break things,Wires, pens or even a cardboard box.Take a pair of scissors and cut it open.It could be a building that is going to be destroyed,It could also be a shelter filled with alien bakers and ovens.But when mom comes in, I quickly hide it –She has angry eyes and crossed armsBecause pieces of cardboard are scatteredHereThereAnd everywhere.

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Page 78

‘Funny-serious’: A response to ‘Two Weeks with the Queen’

‘Two Weeks with the Queen’

After reading Maurice Gleitzman’s novel ‘Two Weeks with the Queen’, which tells a sad story in a humorous way, students were asked to try and recount an unpleasant or unhappy moment from their own lives, but to express it with humour. They were asked to focus on pace, use dialogue where necessary, and – most difficult of all – identify comic detail.

Yesterday, my brother asked me, ‘Nathan, can I listen to music?’I said, ‘Okay, but I will choose it for you.’He was angry, asking me why. I told him that it was his fault for not memorising his passagesand poems.He had to ask me as he knows nothing about music and needs my advice.He nodded. It wasn’t as if he had a choice.I chose the song ‘Minecraft’ by C418.It’s the song for the game ‘Minecraft’, which isn’t a very original title.It’s also a very dull song.My stupid brother was angry.‘Why have you chosen such a boring song?’ he asked.‘It’s a punishment for not memorising your passage and poems,’ I said.My mum had already told him off about this. She said he had been listening to music beforeand that’s why he didn’t do his homework properly.‘That’s not fair,’ he shouted.‘Nothing’s fair,’ I said. ‘Get used to it.’Then, he moved his head and bit me on the arm.‘Ow!’ I yelled. ‘Why did you do that?’‘Because I felt like it.’‘Just for putting boring music on?’‘Yes.’‘That’s not fair.’‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Nothing’s fair. Get used to it.’Sometimes I hate my brother. My arm still has his teeth-marks on it. One day, while he’s notlooking, I’ll probably bite his ear. Hard.

Yesterday, at midnight, I woke up. I was sweating as if an evil dwarf had dumped a bucket ofwater over me.Sweat dripped off me.I slept again.The next day, my head was lava hot. I tried to get some water to drink but my leg waswobbling, like a drunk snake.I walked slowly across the room. My eyes were almost closed.Boom!!I bumped into the kitchen door.I wondered who had put it there.Then, I fell over.My face was pale and red.Hearing the crash, my brother and mom came in.My brother pointed at me and laughed. ‘Your face is so red, like a monkey’s butt’.I looked at him and hated him even more than usual.‘Were you drunk?’ he continued.‘Shut-up,’ I said.‘Did you have any wine?’ he went on.‘Shut-up,’ I repeated.‘Or beer?’ he wanted to know.Sometimes, even for a stupid person, he could really be stupid.‘Shut-up,’ I said again.‘Be quiet, you two,’ said our mom.Actually, I didn’t care as I was exhausted.My mom pulled me off the ground and bundled my brother out of the room.‘Or whisky?’ he added as he went through the door, without quite bumping into it.Meanwhile, my mom quickly got me into some clothes, thinking that I might be cold.Problem was, the clothes were all the same colour. I looked silly. Like a polar bear in red.We dashed to the hospital. The doctor asked me to open my mouth and say, ‘Ahhh’.‘Why?’ I asked.‘Just do it,’ said mom.‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh,’ I said.‘Thank you,’ the doctor smiled, without meaning it. ‘You are sick.’Of course I’m sick, I thought. I certainly didn’t need him to tell me that.

Time passed.I was in the hospital for two weeks.Every night I watched ‘Peppa Pig’ and every morning I peed my bed.The two things were not connected.Being ill is not funny.

Once when I was young, my dad took me to a farm.He probably thought it would be good for me. All that outdoor stuff and nature.I hate outdoors stuff and nature.Parents often make stupid decisions.When you have a lot of homework, they take you to dinner.When you want to go to dinner, they make you do your homework.Typical behaviour.When we got to the farm, he immediately and predictably disappeared, talking to other adults.I played on the rocks by the door.I know that sounds kind of dumb but what else was there to do?‘Get off those rocks. It’s dangerous!’ my dad shouted, suddenly taking an interest.It was almost like they wanted me to be bored.But it was too late. I had become so bored I would do anything. Even jump between two rocksthat were miles apart.I made the jump.I slipped.I fell.Climbing up, my vision became dizzy.But it didn’t hurt at all, or not that I could remember.The parents who were talking before and taking no notice of me suddenly started taking notice.They looked at me and started screaming, ‘What in the holy world happened!?’Now, suddenly, they start to remember me.They had tissue paper and were running towards me.

I thought how Dad always looks dumb when he runs in that strange way. Like a giraffe.That is what I saw the blood on the rock.My blood.‘That’s impossible right?’It must had been the dumb farmer who pointed at the rock and said, ‘What the hell? Whopainted this rock red!’Was he trying to make a joke?While all of this was happening, question marks were floating above my head.And that was the point they took me to hospital.At the first hospital, my doctor was on his lunch break, so we went to the next one.The doctors always have lunch breaks when patients need them the most.Dentists have holidays when you need a tooth extracted.A garage shuts off when you need a car to be washed.That’s life in a nutshell.God plays pranks on you when you least expect it.It was during this time that I started to feel pain.But when I reached the new hospital, the doctor was fast and gave me an-a-est-he-tic orwhatever, on the butt.Again, I felt no pain but, God, why on the butt, when there’s so much more of me that’s lessembarrassing.I was still wondering about this when the medicine started to work.But it only worked long enough to keep me quiet while the doctor got on with ‘ImportantThings’, i.e., things that weren’t to do with me.Seemingly decades later, the pain finally reached me.Exactly when I was in the goddamn toilet.And on that day, I came out of the toilet with a monkey butt.

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Page 82

‘Life Isn’t Fair’: A response to ‘A Monster Calls’

Life is not always Fair At one point in the Patrick Ness’s novel ‘A Monster Calls’, the main character – a young boy named Conor – learns that life isn’t always ‘fair’. People do not always get what they think they deserve. Over five consecutive days, students were asked to look for examples of unfairness in their own lives and to briefly describe these.

1. A while ago, I had to go home by myself. It was a rainy day and I took the bus. I sat there until the second stop. An old woman got on and saw there were no seats. She called over to me, asking that I give my seat to her. She didn’t actually look very old or have any injuries, but I still gave her the seat, mainly to avoid an argument. Eventually, I arrived home and thought the whole thing was really unfair. Why should old people be respected by others just because they are old? 2. Last week, at school, I met a primary school student. I went to find him for an interview. When I asked if he had time, he said some bad words. I thought it was bad that such a little person could be so rude, so I told his homeroom teacher. The teacher told me to be ‘patient’ and not to get angry. I don’t understand this: why should we always forgive young ones, even when they are wrong? 3. One day, I went to buy a snack. It cost me 2 yuan. Then, the next day, I went to buy the same thing again and it cost 1.5 yuan. It’s a very little difference but I still felt it was somehow unfair. The decrease in the cost is probably a good thing. I don’t know why it makes me sad. 4. When I started ‘middle school’, we had military training in our summer vacation. It was an unforgettable experience. It was extremely hot that summer and we needed to stand still, outside, in the heat. The next year, our school cancelled the training. I think that’s very unfair to me, but not only to me – all of the students in my grade. The training was very hard and some of us even got ill. Why shouldn’t others have the same experience as us? 5. One day in my Sixth Grade, I sent homework to my teacher. But, the next day, she couldn’t find it and thought I hadn’t handed it in. Then, she called me to do a new one, and I did so. At the end of the semester, she found my first work and handed it back, even though I’d already done the second one. It felt very unfair.

1. Hard Work sometimes does not get an equal result Life is often unfair because hard work does not always bring success. Many people study hard, work for a long time and try their best every day to improve their life. However, they may never get a better job or a better position. But on the opposite, some people succeed easily because of their family’s money, connections or luck. They do not work hard at all but still get great rewards. This is unjust. People’s efforts should be recognized and rewarded fairly, but life often don’t care about honest hard work and favours lucky people instead. 2. Innocent People Suffer from Accidental reasons It is unfair when good people suffer for no reason. Many kind and honest people follow the rules and live well. Even so, they may suddenly face serious troubles that are not their fault. For example, a nice person can get hurt because of someone else’s careless mistake. A poor family may lose their home in a natural disaster. Bad things happen random, no matter if a person is good or bad. It is unreasonable that innocent people must feel pain and lose important things when they have done nothing wrong at all. 3. Unequal Birth Life is unfair because people have different lives from birth. We cannot choose our family, our home or our parents’ money. Some children are lucky. They have rich families, good schools and lots of support to help them follow their dreams. Other children are born poor. They do not have good education, safe homes or useful learning tools. Their life and future are much harder from the start. This is unjust because a person’s future should depend on their hard work and talent, not their family background. 4. Kindness Is Not Always Rewarded Being kind does not always bring good rewards in life, which is very unfair. Many people are friendly, helpful and generous to others. They help people in need and always try to be good. Sadly, kind people are sometimes ignored, treated badly or betrayed. Selfish people often take advantage of their kindness to get what they want. Sometimes bad people face no trouble, while good people get hurt. This is not right. Kindness should always be respected and rewarded, not used or disrespected by others.

5. Talented People Are Buried by Opportunity Scarcity It is unfair when talented people cannot show their skills because they have no chances. Many people are smart, creative and hard-working. They have great talent and real ability, but they never get a chance to show it. They do not have helpful friends or good opportunities. Meanwhile, people with less talent can become successful and famous just because they get more chances to be seen. Life does not reward people based on their true skills. Many great talents are hidden and wasted, and this is truly unfair.

Day 1

Today, I understood a tough fact that pets will not stay by our side forever. My lovely old cat Mimi suffered from serious illness and passed away not long ago. I once imagined she could curl up quietly on my bed and keep accompanying me all my life. She was my dearest friend and always relieved my bad mood when I felt lonely and upset. It is tough for me to face her departure. I still miss her all the time. Meanwhile, I feel blessed and grateful for all those precious and joyful moments we spent together in the past days.

Day 2

I realized today that people cannot succeed and win all the time. I devoted plenty of time to soccer training every day, dreaming of entering the school soccer team. Yet I failed the final selection in the end. Great disappointment filled my heart since I believed I had made sufficient progress. My coach told me the team had recruited enough members. Although I felt gloomy, I know failure is ordinary in growth. I will stick to daily practice and spare no effort to realize my dream in the next year.

Day 3

I found out that mother is unable to deal with all troubles in life. I accidentally fell off my bicycle and broke my favourite toy that I loved deeply. My mother tried to stick broken parts together with glue, but the toy could never recover its original appearance. I used to think my mother was omnipotent and could settle all my troubles. This fact upsets me a lot. Still, it reminds me to behave more cautiously and take good care of my personal belongings in daily life from now on.

Day 4

Today I learn that it is impossible to gain everyone’s favour. I hoped to make friends with a new classmate in my class. I took the initiative to greet him and shared my colourful crayons sincerely. However, he paid no attention to my kindness. I felt hurt and confused about his cold attitude. It is hard for me to accept that I cannot please everybody. Fortunately, I have loyal and warm true friends. I will treasure our friendship and stop caring about those unkind people.

Day 5

I feel deeply that time flows far faster than I expect. I can still recall the relaxed life when I was a first-grade student vividly. Now I have stepped into fourth grade unconsciously. I hope I could stay young forever and get away from tiring homework and various worries. Rapid growing makes me reluctant and sad. Nevertheless, growing up also brings countless new surprises. I can master different skills and experience more wonderful and unforgettable things in the future journey of life.

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Page 86

‘Dear Bruno’: a response to ‘The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas’

‘The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas’

Students wrote a letter in response to a letter that the young boy, Bruno, had written to his father about the things he’d seen after the family had moved to a concentration camp, where his father was Camp Commandant. The original letter is not in the book – it is an imagined letter that Bruno might have written and preceds the ones that students wrote in response.

Dear Father,

As you know, I haven’t been happy since we moved here from Berlin. However, I have now discovered other things that make me uncomfortable. In fact, they are things that just make me want to ask more questions about the reasons for our move.

I have met a boy who lives in the camp on the other side of the fence. Please don’t ask how I met him because it would mean me admitting that I went against mother’s instructions not to explore.

The boy’s name is Shmuel. He is very unhappy and very, very unhealthy. He lives in terrible conditions in the camp. And most terrible, is that many of his family have disappeared. They arrived at the camp with him and now he suspects they have been killed. He doesn’t know why.

When I talk to Shmuel, it is clear he is a very clever boy. So are his parents. I don’t understand why they are in the camp. What have they done wrong? Which reminds me, why is Pavel peeling potatoes when he is really a doctor?

When I told Shmuel that you were in charge of the camp, he looked away. He couldn’t look me in the eye and it seemed as if he was afraid of letting me know how he really felt about your job.

I am confused, father. What is your job? What do you do? I am beginning to think that there are bad reasons for us being here.

Can you help me understand what is happening?

Love,

Bruno

Dear Bruno,

I now need to tell you that you shouldn’t be friends with the boy called Shmuel. He is a Jewish person and we are now in a war for killing them now – so you shouldn’t be playing with a person on the opposite side of the conflict.

Sometimes, you need to know that even if a person is your friend, they are not necessarily on the same side as you. Then, they become your enemy.

These people, the Jews, are greedy and disloyal, who knows that what they will do to you? Also, I don’t want you to risk your life playing with a kid that we don’t even know and don’t know what he might do to you.

In addition, I should tell you what my real job is being the captain, the leader, of lots of soldiers. My responsibility is to keep the people in the camp and not allow them to go anywhere. Some of the reason we are here and have moved from Berlin is because these people are evil and cannot be trusted. I am in a mission now to ensure that the evil Jews are controlled, because they cannot be trusted.

So, Bruno, please don’t play with your ‘friend’ anymore. He’s probably not a good person and might do something bad to you. Also, if the war ends sometime soon, you will probably be able to go back to Berlin and play with your friends. But not until after the war. Keep that thought in your head and for the moment look after yourself.

Love,

Father

Dear Bruno,

I received your letter.

First of all, I must tell you, you must never go near the fence or speak to the boy in the camp again. Mother’s rules are set for your safety, and wandering off to that place is extremely dangerous.

I see you have many questions, but some truths are far too heavy for a child your age to know. The people behind the fence are different from us, and this camp exists for important national reasons you cannot yet understand. They are kept there as part of our duty. Do not listen to everything Shmuel might say. What he tells you is full of fear and misunderstanding.

As for Pavel, everyone has their own work to do here. His past does not matter, and he must follow his duties just like everyone else. You do not need to know why.

I know you wonder about my job. I am in charge of managing this camp and am carrying out serious responsibilities for our country. This work is good, even though it may seem strange to you. I understand why Shmuel did not really like that topic. Life there has made all of them tired and confused.

So, please stop letting strange thoughts fill your mind. Stay within our house and garden. Focus on your games and studies. Do not go near the fence and do not believe what others say. You will understand when you grow up.

With love,

Father

Dear Bruno,

I have read your letter and I feel worried about your confusion. First, you must stop going near the fence – right away. You broke your mother’s rule about exploring and this puts you in real danger.

The camp on the other side is run by strict orders from top leaders of our country. I cannot tell you all details of my job, as these are secret and too hard for a young boy like you to understand. The people in the camp are seen by the government as people who are against our nation, so they live in poor conditions. Shmuel’s family situation is a result of these official rules. It is not something I choose to do.

For Pavel, his old job as a doctor does not matter here. Everyone in the camp has to do simple work like peeling potatoes and following the camp’s rules. When Shmuel discovered I was in charge of the camp, he avoided my eyes. All people there feel afraid of camp leaders, not because I did bad things.

We moved from Berlin only because I got a work assignment here. Please stay safe near our house, do not meet Shmuel again, and focus on your schoolwork. Leave these adult problems to me and other leaders.

You can trust me.

With love,

Father

Dear Bruno,

I was very surprised to receive your letter, and I can see you are full of questions since we moved to Out-With. I know you are unhappy here, but I need you to trust me when I say we are here for a very important reason. We are here for the good of our family and our country.

You mentioned meeting a boy called Shmuel by the fence. I will not ask how you met him but I must tell you clearly – you should not go near that fence again, and you must not talk to that boy. These people, the ones behind the fence, are not like us. They live in the camp for reasons you are too young to understand. It is not safe for you to be there and your mother is right to tell you not to ‘explore’.

You also ask about my job and what I do here. It is a serious duty given to me by the Fury himself, and I cannot explain it all to you right now. As for Pavel peeling potatoes, that is just how things work here. You do not need to question these things.

Bruno, I know you are confused. But you must stop asking questions. You are a child and these are things you don’t need to worry about. Focus on your school work, obey your mother, and stay away from the fence. I know this is the best course of action for you.

With love,

Your father

Dear Bruno,

How are you?

I am very glad you wrote to me.

In the letter you sent, you ask a lot of questions. These questions are mostly about your recent discovery. Before I answer them, I want to tell you that I am disappointed you disobeyed your mother and my instructions. I know you want to be a soldier like me when you grow up – a soldier follows his captain’s commands and I command you not to go near the fence any more.

You are almost nine now, I think, and you ought to know something. The boy you met is a Jew and the people behind the fence are all Jews, too. They are in the camp because they want to destroy our society. All the trouble we have is because of them.

Listen, Bruno: our country is doing its greatest deed. It is united in getting these people out of sight. And I am a part of it. Bruno – aren’t you proud about this?

So, I think you should pay more attention to your schoolwork instead of exploring and investigating all over the place. Your schoolwork will help you in the future, believe me. Learn more history! And I think you should read more newspapers, too.

I know you must be lonely in Out-With. Especially since there is no one to play with. I’ll see if I can invite grandfather here for a few days.

Don’t think of the camp anymore. It is not your business. When you grow up, you will know more. Meanwhile, I hope you have a good and happy day.

Love,

Father

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Page 92

Poems

Stanza One: The Northern Spotted Owl (Jueju)I glide through broken woods above mefiltered light holds still in green airMy wing tips brush once still brancheslight rests on bark and moss belowThe forest felt a single world,I knew each branch, each small bend,My mate would call from afar,But I hear it loud and clearNow trees stop where they once reachedThe woods break off and meet the skyOpen land lies in betweenToo wide for me to try to crossI wait along the edges hereThe air feels wrong, the ground too bareWhat once was shade and steady darkIs now bright wind and empty airEach year the forest grows more thinEach year my world becomes less whole

Stanza Two: The Developer (free verse)We need wood.We need land.We need space to build and grow.

We take what seems ours,and leave enough to showA forest still exists.

Square feet measure what remains,A patch is still a forest,at least on a map.

But lines on mapshide the widening gaps.We take what we can,and care little for the rest.

Stanza Three: Forest (acrostic)For centuries, I stretched unbrokenRoots tangled deep beneath the soilAll shade and coolness filled my hallsGreen refuge for creatures of the nightMy edges now recede each yearEchoes of life now drift and fadeNarrow patches remain, weak and smallThe center of my world shrinks awayEvery sound of life grows faintDarkness I once held grows small

Stanza Four: The Barred Owl (Haiku)I glide through broken woodsthrough open gaps between treesI hunt in silenceBright edges stretch widenothing there can block my pathI move steadily

Others stop callingI find new ground and remainthe forest is mine

Stanza Five: The Scientist (Ballad)When forests break apart,The loss is more than trees,Smaller patchesleave less room to breed.Young owls must travel farwith no guarantees,Some never reach another homeSome never get to leave.Each year their numbers fall.Each year the silence grows.I chart the loss in numbers,but cannot name what it shows.

Stanza Six: The Owl (Lyric Poem)I do not know the words of science,I do not count the slow decline.I only know my forest is not mine,The spaces grow wide, the calls grow faint.

What once was home without a doubtIt is harder now to know or find.If the woods break, I am left blind,There may come a spring with no one calling my name.

Stanza Seven: The Scientist (Question/Fracture Form)How do I measurea forestthat breaksbefore I finish counting it?

One answer, thenanother fault line.One graph, thenthe shape changes.

I test,I trace,I table the losses,

but every answeropens another wound,and the problemkeeps slippingthrough my hands.

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Submissions

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