To my university tutors...

If only our indoctrination was this inventive...

Or at least, to some of them. I have just one question for you; just one. It's a small question, so you'll probably approve; nice and concise. So short, in fact, that its answer seems to have passed you by this year. My question is this: what do you want me to do? I mean this not in an obsequious, genie-of-the-lamp kind of way, you understand, but as a genuine query. It's something that has been bothering me for some months now, and as I think you'll agree upon its importance, I'd appreciate some level of understanding.

Here are my observations. Since September, we have been taught a reasonable quantity of facts; not, perhaps, as many as might have been possible, but probably enough to pass the exams. We have been taught also what these facts mean - and this is where I must begin to take issue. Because if there was one thing I didn't expect to encounter upon coming to university, indoctrination would be it. Yet in every lecture - and to a lesser extent seminars - we have been told what to know and what to think about it. Nobody has taught us how to think. Honestly, we've barely touched upon how other people do it, let alone considered the venture for ourselves.

The opinions of established historians are 'better,' apparently; or, to quote one of my tutors (who also happens to be a module organiser), "more good". I wish I was joking. I understand the premise here, of course; that those who have dedicated their lives to the study of a select topic ought to constitute a more reliable reference point on the matter than an undergraduate who happens to have taken into their head the same interpretation. That's fine where facts are concerned, but what about once we've read the books? Once we know all we need to in order to write the essay, might we not be allowed to think then? I'm not saying we're experts, of course not. But I think we're informed enough to at least think for ourselves a little.

Alas, no. Once all the materials have been devoured and the fingers are poised at the keyboard, ready to regurgitate them back at the tutors who recommended them in the first place, there is apparently nothing left to be done but write. No further consideration is required, beyond deciding which side to take in the argument between 'proper' historians. What if you don't agree with any side? Make an arbitrary choice, and argue it as well as you can. Nobody cares what you really think, they care only that you know what you ought to. It feels like school all over again, when, in the midst of protestations that such a thing was surely impossible, we were taught that the electron has no mass. In fact, I can personally attest that trying to include some element of independent thought, for example in an essay, can actually result in lower marks. It seems absurd that even at this stage in our education we are being discouraged from using the very organ that got us there, but unfortunately, that is how things stand. As a history student, I can honestly say that I have learned more about my subject outside of teaching hours than during them. Such a state of affairs is beyond regrettable; it is unacceptable.

'Rage, Rage, Against the dying of the light' was not written about intellectualism in higher education, but it might have been. That which Shelley feared in An Exhortation has come to pass: "Yet dare not stain with wealth or power / A ... free and heavenly mind" he wrote, but apparently his plea to "refuse the boon" fell on selectively deaf ears. It is as Professor Trefusis mocked in The Liar: "A university education should be broad and general. But these students are being trained, not educated. They are being stuffed like Strasbourg geese. Pappy mush is forced into them, just so one part of their brains can be fattened. ... It's regrettable and there's little we can do about it."

It present, it does seem that Trefusis is correct: there is little we can do about it, save fill our spare hours with self-education and resist the determined pigeon-holing we are forced into as we progress through the education system. It is not nearly a good enough solution, but it is, perhaps, the start of one.

The Sherlock Fandom

Hopefully this picture makes up for what you're about to read...

I would be the first to admit that I am a Sherlock fangirl. (That's the show, not the character, if you were wondering about the italics...) Not the worst, but not as far from it as I'd like either. But something about this fandom really drives me insane - and it isn't Benedict Cumberbatch. Now, don't get me wrong, I think he's a good actor and in all probability the best choice for the role. But that's just it; most of my fellow fans seem incapable of getting any further than staring witlessly at the screen every time he so much as blinks, let alone appraising his actual performance merit. I find it ceaselessly frustrating that I seem to be one of the only people watching this show for other reasons than hormonal, that's all. By all means, continue as you are! But please, show a little mental diversity? Would it kill you to look beyond the face and appreciate the plots, the effects, the acting, the scripts, anything else at all? This rant, incidentally, is inspired by just such comments about the very picture you see above, to which the primary response on a particular popular-but-waning social media site was to the effect of 'Lucky teacup!', followed by far too many emoticons (if that is still the term du jour for such symbols?)

Personally my favourite character in the show is Mycroft. Maybe he doesn't have cheekbones you could cut yourself on, or hair that belongs in a shampoo advert, but the depth and complexity of his character is infinitely more rewarding. Watching the character develop, learning more about him and coming to understand the thoughts behind his actions has made the show a far richer experience for me than it would have been otherwise. But let's look at the others for a moment: Sherlock, the isolated-but-secretly-craving-friendship 'sociopath'; John, the I-couldn't-be-closer-to-the-stereotypically-loyal-sidekick; Moriarty, a crude and predictable semi-inversion of Sherlock who with every episode drifts further away from the deviously captivating original of Conan Doyle's imagining... and I won't even begin to mention Molly, who beggars description. Send her out into the world and let her fangirl with the rest of them. At least Mrs. Hudson has more than two dimensions, but her character is nowhere near central enough to make the most of this.

The show saw a radical shift in the latest series, but few seem to have noticed - and even fewer noted - this. Of course they haven't. Maybe if you took your eyes off that purple shirt for five seconds...? But it isn't nearly fresh enough in my mind to delve into that particular discussion right now, so I'll apologise for my one-sided irritability and sign off. Please don't excommunicate me, fandom?

The Epic of Gilgamesh

Not quite a door-knocker...

People always seems to remember the fact of Marley's death, but whilst Dickens had an undeniable flair for opening stories, I maintain that few subsequent writings can parallel this personal favourite:

"He came a far road, was weary, found peace,

  and set all his labours on a tablet of stone.

 He built the rampart of Uruk-the-Sheepfold,

  of holy Eanna, the sacred storehouse.

 See its wall like a strand of wool,

  view its parapet that none could copy!

 Take the stairway of a bygone era,

  draw near to Eanna, the seat of Ishtar the goddess,

 that no later king could ever copy!

 Climb Uruk's wall and walk back and forth!

  Survey its foundations, examine the brickwork!

 Were its bricks not fired in an oven?

  Did the Seven Sages not lay its foundations?

 A square mile is the city, a square mile date-grove, a square mile is

  clay-pit, half a square mile the temple of Ishtar:

 three square miles and a half is Uruk's expanse.

 See the tablet-box of cedar,

  release its clasp of bronze!

 Lift the lid of its secret,

  pick up the tablet of lapis lazuli and read out

 the travails of Gilgamesh, all that he went through."

Who reads that and doesn't feel the warm breeze blowing through their hair as they survey the city? The worn steps beneath their feet as they climb? Who does not hear the rustle of palm leaves from their vantage point, just audible beneath the sounds of people thriving? Feels the smooth wood of the lid as they open the box, the smell of time passing as a gasp of air is released from its long-neglected prison? The weight of the tablet, the buzz of anticipation for the first word of what promises to be an epic tale?

In a few short lines, the reader is transported to ancient times, in what is now Iraq. In that instant, the story is so vivid it could almost be real - and how many authors have achieved that?

Never Mind...

The Wipers Times, student-style. This was inspired by a notice in my kitchen, and is just a bit of fun. Enjoy!

If your chip pan catches fire... never mind.
And your face may lose its smile... never mind.
The insurance covers a tot, but not the bleeding lot,
If your chip pan catches fire... never mind.

When your student finance runs out... never mind.
And your face may lose its smile... never mind.
Though the banks may hue and cry, and you still have books to buy,
If your student finance runs out... never mind.

If you have lectures at 06:30... never mind.
And your face may lose its smile... never mind.
Though at least you're out of bed, not a word sticks in your head,
If you have lectures at 06:30... never mind.

The Father of History?

In his book 'Ancient Athens on Five Drachmas a Day', Philip Matyszak describes the two earliest historians in the following terms:

When war comes, Thucydides will unsuccessfully command troops in this area [Thrace] against the great Spartan general Brasidas. Thereafter he will turn his skills to chronicling the ebb and flow of the fortunes of Athens in its contest with Sparta and her allies. To do this, he will essentially have to invent the craft of writing history.

It is worth noting at this point that Herodotus, who we encounter below, is commonly cited as the Father of History, so Matyszak's claim that Thucydides invented the craft is quite iconoclastic.

His famous predecessor in the field is Herodotus, a writer of the previous generation, whose History is a rag-bag of anecdotes, myths and travellers' tales. As a historian Herodotus meanders happily through his collection, getting side-tracked into endless digressions, yet always emerging triumphantly with the thread of his narrative.

This is not an opinion shared by R.G. Collingwood, who explains in his classic publication 'The Idea of History' that

The greatness of Herodotus stands out in the sharpest relief when, as the father of history, he is set against a background consisting of the general tendencies of Greek thought. The most dominant of these was anti-historical ... because it involved the position that only what is unchanging can be known. Therefore history is a forlorn hope, an attempt to know what, being transitory, is unknowable. But ... by skilful questioning, Herodotus was able to ... attain knowledge in a field where Greeks had thought it impossible.

Not quite the tavern storyteller of Matyszak's narrative. By contrast, Collingwood considers Thucydides in markedly less favourable terms:

[A]fter him [Herodotus] the search for unchangeable and eternal objects of knowledge gradually stifled the historical consciousness, and forced men to abandon the Herodotean hope of achieving a scientific knowledge of past human actions. The difference between the scientific outlook of Herodotus and that of Thucydides is hardly less remarkable than the difference between their literary styles. The style of Herodotus is easy, spontaneous, convincing. That of Thucydides is harsh, artificial, repellent.

Admittedly the latter observation is purely the opinion of the author. But he continues:

In reading Thucydides I ask myself, What is the matter with the man, that he writes like that? I answer: he has a bad conscience. He is trying to justify himself for writing history at all by turning it into something that is not history. ... Thucydides is not the successor of Herodotus in historical thought

(a point, at least, upon which the two authors would seem to be in agreement)

but the man in whom the historical thought of Herodotus was overlaid and smothered beneath anti-historical motives.

So, on the one hand we have the opinion that Herodotus was a writer of amusing stories, learned from the people he encountered on his travels but not subjected to any kind of critical analysis, and on the other we have the more recognisable standpoint that Herodotus was a thinker of specific genius, who stood alone amid ancient Greek thought in his attempts to compile an accurate narrative. Equally, we have a description of Thucydides as a scientific thinker and innovative developer of an entirely new field, rubbing shoulders with the opinion of him as a mimic, trying to imitate the brilliance of his predecessor but falling short under the weight of contemporary thought. But who is closest to the truth?

One important factor is defining what we are to understand by scientific history. The development of this brand of history has been attributed again to both Herodotus and Thucydides. It is my opinion that both parties are correct. To clarify: Herodotus was the first to employ a critical approach to his use of sources, cross-referencing and questioning each informant extensively in order to make his narrative as coherent as possible. Thucydides, however, was the one to dispose of the inclusion of mythological factors as explanations for human phenomena.

George Orwell: An Author of Talent and Versatility

George Orwell

I would expect that almost anyone in Britain has, at one time or another, read Orwell’s work.  Perhaps you studied ‘Nineteen Eighty-Four’ at school, or else have been moved to read his political essays.  Maybe you had simply heard his name, and wanted to see what all the fuss was about.  For whatever reason, most people have read at least some Orwell in their lifetime.

Such widespread popularity is testament to his skill as a writer, for people would not still be reading his work now, seventy years on, if it was not worth it.  I myself have recently come into possession of a copy of ‘Animal Farm’, and look forward to adding to it to my repertoire.

One of the things that makes him such an appealing author is his range of subjects.  Most of his work has political undertones, but the surface topic varies quite radically.  The English language, for instance, is one of his favourites, and can be found in the same book as an essay on ‘Shooting an Elephant’, from 1936.

His depth of feeling is another.  Orwell, I think it is safe to say, does not emote by halves.  It is impossible to read a single page of his work without stumbling over some adjective or verb which instils the reader with a powerful mental image, and an understanding of the situation described as few writers are capable of creating.

In addition, the imagery in Orwell’s writing is spectacular.  One of his expressed ‘rules’ is that an author ought to ask himself, “Is this image fresh enough to have an effect?”  To this end, he often invents new metaphors, to fit the situation he is describing.  For instance, in his essay ‘Politics and the English Language’, he says:

...an accumulation of stale phrases chokes him like tea leaves blocking a sink.

Or, to take a more affecting example, in ‘Down the Mine’ there appears the phrase:

…the unending rattle of the conveyor belt, which in that confined space is rather like the rattle of a machine gun.

Such terms as the above cannot help but move the reader to emotion, which is, of course, his precise aim.

George Orwell causes one to feel, to sympathise, to become enthralled in his writing until the only possible source of satisfaction has become the turning of the page.  Such an ability is, in a writer, invaluable, but is rarely seen performed with such skill.  That is why he is such a popular author, even so long after the public were first exposed to his works.  He manages to create an intimacy between author and reader that could only be replicated by, say, a fireside chat in winter, and at the same time causes one to think in ways that one has never before even considered.  In short, George Orwell remains popular because he performs exactly as an author should.

The Atomic Conscience: Should physicists feel responsible for the bomb?

The iconic 'mushroom cloud'

I have been reading the excellent book, 'Brighter than a Thousand Suns', and this is what came of it.  Just imagine, for the moment, that this is the 1940s, and my chosen topic is therefore still something of a contentious novelty...

Should Faraday, if he had lived impossibly long enough learn of it, have felt himself responsible for the electric chair?  Of course this analogy is not a perfect one, because at the time of development, there was no suggestion that the electrical current might be used as an implement of torture.  In this, Faraday is like Hahn; a scientist whose early work with radioactivity revealed the astonishing power in the heart of an atom.

But, what of the other atomic physicists, working for the US government at the ‘atomic cities’ during WWII?  They knew that their work was intended for the ‘war effort’, and that as subsidiaries of the US military, they would not necessarily be able to limit the use of their creations to the purely peaceful.  In spite of this, many still consented to work on the bomb.

However, they cannot, surely, be held wholly responsible for their actions?  The majority of employees at Los Alamos, for instance, were unaware toward what goal they were working.  In addition to this, even the scientists who did know about the proposed atomic bomb were, like almost all of the world at that time, swept up in feelings of patriotic duty and national pride.  These emotions led them to make judgements which would normally be out of character for them, and which many later regretted.

One way of dealing with this regret was, for atomic physicists in particular, to protest against the use of this new source of immense energy to destructive ends.  These objections became especially loud following the detonation of the atomic bomb over Hiroshima, and again upon the development of the ‘H-bomb’.  Were these men genuinely repenting for their perceived ‘sins’, or was it a case of playing to the public?  I am given to suspect the former.  Assuming that I am correct, however, it still remains to say whether their conscience came too late into action – a question for those better placed to judge their fellow man than I, I feel.

It must be remembered, in the midst of such a smorgasbord of inner turmoil and public expressions of guilt, that emotions have no real impact upon past actions.  The apologies of these physicists are gratifying, yes, but they do not change the fact that the same men knowingly developed, as only they could, the means of constructing a more powerful bomb than had ever been seen.  They knew that their work would be used by the military, and – barring a very small number – they continued anyway.

Perhaps the most satisfactory conclusion to draw is that the atomic scientists of that war were indeed responsible for their respective parts played in the production of such a deadly and inhumane weapon.  However, their regret that they were party to such an act seems genuine, and in this case, they ought perhaps to be afforded the benefit of the doubt.  It is my belief, therefore, that these men should be held responsible for their actions, and subsequently forgiven for them.