A wave of altering emotions harshly kiss my face as I read certain poems. As hopeless as it may seem, I experience a somewhat strange sense of nostalgia, one which I am currently desperately attempting to prevent from entering my mind. However, I face apparent and blatant defeat in the face of Carol Ann Duffy’s poem ‘Hand’ from her beautifully written ‘Rapture’ collection. I cannot help feeling ridiculously foolish as the poem (when appropriately analysed) symbolizes my whole being at this current moment.


Quantum Strangeness & Becoming Oneself

This is amazing


Our classical world is composed of mutually exclusive alternatives: Everything is either something or something else; it is a this or a that, though we may be unaware of these identities due to ignorance. A color is always either red or not red; two socks in a closed box are either a pair or not a pair whether we look inside or not. There is never a middle case in the classical world.

Quantum world, however, is quite different. Besides the two/many mutually exclusive alternatives everything in between too exists. A color is at once all colors until we pick one color by looking at it! A particle has no particular place until we force it to pick a place by measuring its place!

It turns out that mutually exclusive alternatives, our classical world, is only a small and often filtered portion of the underlying reality. Which reality we pick…

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Society’s View On “Romantic Novels”

Recently, I’ve been reading a handful of novels, many being within the genres of Fiction and Romance. If I list every book I’ve been reading since my last post, the list will be endless, so I’ll just name the few books that can be used as good examples for my chosen topic of discussion.

Georgette Heyer’s Arabella, Shakespeare’s Sonnet Collection, Dinner With A Vampire by Abigail Gibbs, and the following novel in her Dark Heroine series Autumn Rose. I’ve also re-read Bronte’s Jane Eyre and Hardy’s A Pair Of Blue Eyes. These all as well as others led me to writing this post. What really irked me shall we say, whilst I was reading these novels, is the description of “Romance”. This is solely my opinion towards particular books and so I apologize beforehand if my views come across to be too harsh.

It’s almost as though over time, literature in it self has eroded when it comes to the Romance genre as some of the many modern novels of our time hold such vulgarity towards the description of “affection” shown between two fictional characters. Whilst reading Dinner With A Vampire I noticed the explicit descriptions of Violet Lee and Kaspar Varn’s love struck encounters. Honestly, there is nothing wrong with that, every person likes a ‘blood-pumping, falling-head-over-heels, tangled-in-each-others-arms, whispering-voices’ romance as well as the next person, and in this novel it was balanced out by the building relationship of the couple. This view however, dramatically shifted when I read the next book in the growing series. The novel itself was filled with awkward, random and disturbing descriptions of fictional characters either obsessively,physically expressing their undying attraction towards another or simply hammering away at each other. Indeed what I have stated is extremely blunt and uncomfortable, however this was the reality whilst reading. The female protagonist was watching another couple passionately making love. For the love of all that’s sane and splendid, is this what we call romance? What  in heavens name happened to plot/character development? What happened to good old conversations between two people that have an interest towards one another, where the affection is subtly hinted and not blatantly stated, (instead of pouncing on the interlocutor when ever they reach a dark alleyway). I’m not alluding to Jane Eyre’s page long psychoanalysis, (regardless of my undying love for her character and the novel itself) where we understand her character fully before she in even delves into her social love life. It forced me to question whether the “Romance” novels of our time aren’t just porn in written work. Society has an outraged ‘No’ for when it comes to porn in general being portrayed in the media as such, but then isn’t it exactly the same but in written form when a writer talks on in the most horrendous of descriptions about a character and their moments of climax? It disgusts me.

In Heyer’s Arabella, the relationship between Robert Beaumaris and Arabella Tallant is breathtakingly romantic. Heyer clearly shows the reader that the two characters are mad over heels in love with one another and she does this without needing to use vulgar descriptions of physical intimacy. Heck’, the only physical intimacy you read about is them kissing or holding one another. What’s more, towards the end of the novel the readers can understand the implications within Heyer’s writing, “and confined herself to the far more agreeable task of convincing Mr Beauamris that his very obliging sentiments very entirely reciprocated.” This I believe is much more readable as it allows the reader to formally make their decisions upon the point.

Romance within a novel can be defined with the use of elaborate descriptions of disturbing and perverted physical intimacy, but in truth the more superior romantic novels are the ones in which  the tools as stated are used at a minimum, and instead, the writer uses their gift with words to describe the emotions felt by the individuals, without explicitly stating they have feelings for another. This then causes the readers to have to battle with themselves as they have to interpret the cryptic thoughts of the character to understand whether they do indeed feel ‘love’ or not. Adding to the suspense of the story line itself and making the whole experience far more interesting and entertaining,

This I believe makes one hell of a romantic novel.

Literature and it’s ever-growing power

Books, novels, poems etc seem to have some infuriatingly dominant influence over my seemingly weak being. It may possibly be that I am just insane or in fact, it has the same effect on everyone else; overly-imaginative freaks who are too insecure to crawl out of their dark caves and face the judging light of society…that was slightly too dramatic.

I tend to ponder on how amazing the mind of a writer must be, in order to create a piece of literature so captivating it has the power to influence an individual. Many that I have come across, that hold this magical power are; Hardy’s Tess Of D’Urbervilles, Bronte’s Jane Eyre, Rothfuss’ The Name Of The Wind and many more. It’s almost saddening, to think that there are so many writers out there who have the gift to fabricate a golden masterpiece but are hidden from the limelight and in turn dejected. As the summer holidays are looming over us, I’d advise to take this time to read a few books and really lose yourself into an alternate reality. Sometimes that’s the exact antidote needed to cure a mere mortal of their materialistic problems and psychological nightmares.

A clear example can be found in Hardy’s The Voice. Utterly beautiful, the first stanza;

Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.

This poem tends to calm my mind whenever I come to stumble upon it.

Shakespeare’s infamous antagonist Iago…

Afternoon everyone, so I wanted to focus today’s post on the play Othello and more importantly Iago’s soliloquy in Act I, Scene III. I’m going to analyse the ending couplet as this particularly caught my attention.

” I have’t! It is engendered! Hell and night, Must bring this monstrous birth to the world’s light”

The ending to this soliloquy rather intrigued me. The imagery created by the words is compelling. For example, the words “engendered” and “monstrous birth” all fit into the semantic field of childbirth. This is seen as a miracle, gifted to mankind by the divine being; God. However, we see that Iago manipulates this sacred idea. He corrupts something pure and poisons it into something evil. The theme evil links into “Hell and night”, I think this merges the ideas of the supernatural alongside the connotations of “night”, i.e. darkness into a readers mind; forcing them to look at it from a more corrupt perspective. What also caught my attention is that these words are almost portrayed like midwifes, (people that aid a birth). To think Iago desired for something so twisted as “Hell and night” to bring about the birth shows us the depth of his emotions and his passion towards revenge. I appreciate the significant meanings of the contrasting words, “night” and “light”. Both being ambiguous as one interpretation would be that the words are referring to Desdemona’s and “the Moors” skin colors. I believe this highlights the social importance of skin color within play, and how Othello is instantly judged due to preconceptions regarding his skin color, and therefore his roots and abilities. However, this could also be referring to the on going battle between Good and Bad within the play and the constant reminder of these themes shows us the corruption within the play and in some regards the characters. Overall, I really enjoyed this part and hopefully you liked my analysis of this particular soliloquy.

Thanks for reading

So Let’s begin!

I thought I’d start by saying I’m an amateur writer. I tend to create random passages to what seems to be a growing story. So here goes, I’m leaving myself open to any criticism, Thanks for reading. *hides behind the laptop screen*.

Enter The Heart Of Stone;

Lost in a perilous void.
Accompanied with nothing but the shadows lurking behind masks. The dancing shadows, haunting my every move.I squint and see light at the end of the tunnel….as do they. I’m running, sprinting for an escape, away from this nightmare. But I am out run by the shadows. They circle me, like ravenous wolves, looking upon a lonesome lamb. All at once, an excruciating wave of pain cripples my body; Manipulating my muscles to twist, as my blood moves to their bidding. I scream out in agony, my flesh begging for mercy, for the torture to stop.

The pain gradually fades as my body becomes numb.

I’m surrounded by darkness again, Slowly crouching to the ground and cradling myself, I shudder. The new formed chains against my wrists pull as I try to keep myself away from the surrounding figures, dancing. They poison all that is good, mocking my feeble attempt at desperately grasping for control over my own life. Ragged sobs break out from my chest as I weep, weep for my fragile soul, weep for my lost freedom, as I am trapped in this cage of bleakness. A  soft voice whispers,

I have granted you mercy, life, away from the pains of the light.
And I am again lost in a perilous void. Accompanied with nothing but the shadows.

The dancing shadows.