Notes on Hemingway's 'The Snows of Kilimanjaro'

Hi guys,

here's a link to some notes which I found interesting on the book (short story, really) we read for reading group. They're not incredible, but food for thought.

Thanks

http://www.cliffsnotes.com/WileyCDA/LitNote/Hemingway-s-Short-Stories-Summaries-and-Commentaries-The-Snows-of-Kilimanjaro-.id-10,pageNum-57.html

Editorial by Billiam Tantam

Editorial

 

            This is the second magazine of ‘Sketches’ to have been brought out, and I think that it has come a long way from the first.   For one thing, it should have a bigger readership (cross fingers!), and for another, there have been more submissions, which means a more varied read.

 

            With regards to creative writing at SOAS, there has been more interest, though is still limited in numbers.  There seems to have been a lot of attention given to a certain academic within our institution running for the Laureateship – and to him we say good luck!  I’m sure he’d do a darn sight better job than that joker Andrew Motion.  Literary Society has grown a little, and the Reading Group has started up in earnest. Literature, it seems, has been denigrated to the lower rungs of our entertainment preferences, a fact that I do not think is fair, but can understand.  Recently, the introduction of Guitar Hero into our house has meant that my endeavours to become a Guitar expert have relegated the Musils, Orwells, Greenes, and Ginsbergs to mere footstools. However, occasionally a piece of writing will grab you and remind you of how much more fulfilling the act of reading actually is. 

 

            Over the Christmas Holidays I was caught up in the delights of the flesh; good food, fine bed-linen, a doting girlfriend, and left my books to sit idly by, but as January 3^rd approached, I happened upon a poem that made the hands on my watch stop dead, leaving only my breathing to count the restful minutes.  The poem that brought me to such a crescendo of epiphany was Pablo Neruda’s Walking Around, a poem whose frank portrayal of a man beset by insecurities resonated like harmonics in a guitar body within my mind.  Lines of immense beauty are scattered by the poet in abundance; “It happens that I am tired of being a man” … “I do not want to go on being a root in the dark // hesitating, stretched out, shivering with dreams”, lines of such timeless resonance that they weigh on us like a marble weight.  Anyway, I divulge from our little pamphlet.

 

            Once again being overtaken by the excitement of literature that feels relevant to our own lives, I’m excited about this magazine beginning to take flight on its own, and hope that the fact all of the submitters are SOAS students will mean that we can in some way connect better with the sentiment to their pieces.  Perhaps I’m getting away with myself – use it to stop your coffee cup from staining the table whilst you’re playing Guitar Hero, but maybe afterwards, when the evening chill comes through the window, have a quick leaf through, and think on beauty.

 

Thanks for your donation!

 

Billiam

Short Story by Mathilde Nielsen-Earle

A Dreamless Sleep

 

It was that time of day when the heat starts to unwind its taut grip on the world and everything can breathe again. This was more of a time to reawaken than a time to fall asleep, but David sank into a deep and dreamless sleep. If he hadn’t journeyed so deep into unconsciousness, if he’d settled a little closer to reality, some of the dreams David might have dreamt are as follows.

He stands in a well that is so deep that when he looks up he can see the stars even though it is the middle of the afternoon. The water reaches his waist, and though he wears no trousers or underwear his feet are clad in a pair of heavy, waterlogged boots. Down in the well with him is a crowd that includes his mother, sister and younger brother, his old Latin teacher and several workmates. They are arguing about the colour of the apple tree that grew in their garden as children, and David is trying to make himself heard, to draw to their attention that the important question isn’t what colour it was, but whether it felt more like velvet or pineapples.

In another the air is full of paper planes, flying in every direction, but somehow, almost as if space itself were bending around him, not hitting him. In this dream there’s nobody David would be able to identify in his real life, but he is vaguely familiar with each and every one of them. They seem oblivious to the paper planes. Light flashes off of some of the planes as if they were made of polished glass. Others, though a pure white, seem to absorb the light around them. Some appear to be two dimensional, as if they were drawn on flat brittle sheets and not folded. The paper planes, although pervasive and present throughout the greater part of the dream, are secondary features in it, but if David had indeed dreamt this dream, he would have woken remembering little else about it.

In a third the whole thing starts with a pencil being dropped. It ends with the same pencil being dropped in almost exactly the same circumstances, the only difference being that this time it happens after a long and complicated set of events which would make little sense in reality but in the dream seems a logical progression of cause and effect.

There are other dreams that David might have dreamt*, but these are the ones I have chosen to show you. Perhaps they aren’t the most valuable, they don’t necessarily give as clear a picture of his mental state as others might have, and certainly give us no factual information as to why he is in this state.

At the point in time that he did not dream these dreams, David felt swept away by the events in his life. He was not discontented. He had merely had an experience, or, rather, an encounter, that had sent him spinning off centre and made him feel unfamiliar with his every day life.

David was not one for sudden revelations, but something had taken hold of him that he was not prepared for. My experience of David, although relatively limited, has been largely of a person that is steady and reliable, yet even the most dependable characters have the potential to fall prey to an indescribable, elusive weakness that can consume both mind and body. The weakness is this: Love.

David was not in love; he had merely been teased with the potential of it. The object of his desire was the sister of one of his workmates, and the occasion that marked its start was her appearance one morning, on the morning of the day that he did not dream, at the worksite.

What brought her there that morning was to bring her brother Marco his lunch, which he had left on the kitchen table when he left the house early before dawn. This was, of course, not the first time David had met Marco’s sister. Having formed a bond with Marco based on their being the only two “educated”* labourers on the site and planning on this being a temporary situation, David had had dinner at Marco’s family home several times.

At a later date, on one of the occasions that Marco brought him out drinking with us, David, drunk and loose tongued, confessed to me that he had not paid much attention to her at these meals. She had not been particularly welcoming. She had been quiet and cool, watching them from behind calm eyes.

At the worksite, David was surprised to witness, her manner became more relaxed and open. She seemed less defensive, and she teased her brother and herself and even made quick, clever replies to some of the labourers’ lewd remarks. He noticed the curve of her calves and the line of her neck. She wore a light summer dress and her dark hair was up. She had a mole on her left cheek, a dark, soft brown.

Before she left, Marco’s sister turned her attention to David and they exchanged a few words. David couldn’t recall what they spoke of, perhaps the recent heat wave, or what they would be eating that night, but nonetheless he was left with a deep impression. He felt singled out from his colleagues, acknowledged as different, as more sophisticated and complex. During their conversation he felt, for the first time, his heartbeat strengthen at the thought of her, but it was not until she left and he allowed himself a glance at her retreating body that the full impact of their encounter hit him, and did it not leave him until he fell into bed that afternoon.

The reaction was so violent that it almost bypassed his mind and went straight to his body. It was as if it was working through his spine rather than his brain. Because of this, what he felt of the emotion in his mind was eclipsed by the awareness he had of the physical reaction that he was being subjected to. The experience was not unlike drinking too much coffee. He was hot and unpleasantly sweaty. His heart pounded uncontrollably.

This racing pulse was the main cause of his exhaustion at the end of the day. The heat wave meant the physical work was particularly gruelling, but with his pulse the way it was every movement took tenfold the energy it would have done otherwise. He could feel the rhythmic pulsating in his neck and face, and at several points he was seized by the fear that something vital would rupture, sending a cataclysmic blush raging over his skin.

All too awake to the unwelcome effect she was inflicting upon his body, David tried to suppress the thought of Marco’s sister, but even when he succeeded the thrill and the growing dread caused by the idea of being able to experience such forceful emotions intensified his symptoms.

David excused himself when work finished as they reached the hottest part of the day, feeling unable to share a meal with his co-workers without behaving noticeably odd. He roamed the streets aimlessly, having forgotten that he meant to find a café to eat in until the hunger pains cut through the churning of his stomach. He ate enough for two men, and then went home.

 

When he woke up the room was cooler. It took a few moments for Marco’s sister to return to him, and with her came the fear and anticipation of seeing her that evening at Marco’s family home. He washed and dressed and left the house.

The evening was beautiful. When he left it was twilight and the light gave the streets a blue tinge. The trees rustled in the cooling air. By the time he reached Marco’s street night had fallen. The houses on this road were bigger than his own, the gardens well tended and fragrant.

David entered the wrought iron gate and lingered for a moment, before he took the last few steps towards the door to knock, so that he could gather his composure. Before he had the chance to approach the door he saw a figure wander out from the doorway. It was Marco’s sister. She wore the same light, summer dress, but her hair was down. The waves fell past her shoulders and in the garden she seemed younger and freer still than she had that afternoon. She paused at a bush and reached her hand out to touch the foliage.

“Hello,” he said.

She started slightly, her eyes not yet accustomed to the dark.

“Oh. Hello, David,” she said, a smile forming on her lips. She inclined her head slightly towards him.

In that moment, as his heart continued to pound in his chest, David felt the inevitability that, whatever this was, it would not last. It would begin, exist, and then end. He saw no point in resistance, as the end result would be the same. Now this had started he could lose it now, or lose it later.

 

---

* Some would argue that the possibilities are endless. In a conversation during my student days, a fellow scholar vehemently defended the notion that it is possible for a baby to imagine anything (and, in theory, everything) that has happened, will happen or could happen extrapolated from the first few seconds of his or her existence. Personally, I am not a fan of these theories. I would be more then happy to accept that the dreams David did not dream that day would easily fill the vacuous space that the library of the British Museum once occupied, but maintain that the possibilities are finite. I am in no way denying an infinite universe, and feel compelled to quote from Borges’ analogy: “The library is limitless and periodic.”

* David was not in fact educated, but was a low-level pen pusher between jobs.

Photo by Hazwan J

Short Story by James Wilson

Last Days of Sun

 

He was awakened by the late morning sunlight entering his bedroom window, warming his face, lighting his eyelids. When he opened his tired eyes, his little flat shone pink, dyed by his stirring membranes in an unwelcome reveille. He took a hot shower and shaved. He dressed in the clothes he had laid out the night before. The shirt was crisp and fresh. His jacket was new and smelled lightly of tobacco. He splashed cologne onto his face, staring into the mirror at the deep lines that cut into his skin, the contours of his expression spongy and round and disappointing. Gathering up his wallet and keys, the last thing he did before he left was open the cupboard and take out the white leather bag that lay inside next to the burnt metal bin, still smoking. He left and locked the door.

            The day was unripe, and a vagrant wind cooled his neck, hot from the sun shining down. Walking down the street, he stared into the faces of passers by, going about their business. He usually averted his gaze to the ground, slouched over and walked quickly, but today was different. He searched their faces, speculating about their lives and deaths, virtues and sins, and all the while taking large strides, swinging his white leather bag, shining in the sun. He reached the bank, withdrew the last of his funds and folded them in his pocket. He would have a good breakfast today. Further on down and across the road was the nice café, a place where he wanted to eat for a while. Little wooden tables stood outside the glass doors under canvas parasols. Students drank coffee and ate. Smoking was not permitted, even outside. In any case, the wind was a bit too fresh to enjoy this long awaited breakfast, so he went through the glass doors.

He sat down at a table in front of a fern and a fish tank. There was a young female student sitting adjacent to him, reading an old novel. He picked up the gilded menu and ordered the morning deluxe, and a coke. The coke and accompanying croissant arrived and he glanced over at the girl while squeezing the pale lemon juice into the caramel fizz. She was wearing thick framed glasses, and had her hair tied back loosely, occasionally brushing away loose strands of toasted black tint from her eyes. Looking at this young lady refreshed him and he somewhat forgot about his order. He looked at his watch. 10:57. He decided to order a beer in the meantime. Why not? Ten minutes later, his meal arrived, sausages, eggs, toast, black and white pudding, soda and potato bread, not to mention several crisps of bacon stacked up thick. He buttered his croissant and sipped his beer. He felt like a coffee was appropriate but he hated the stuff. As he ate he kept looking at the young student across from him until she eventually stood up and paid her bill. Now full, he followed, leaving several notes too many on the dish. The waitress stared after him as he walked out the door.

            The sun appeared from behind a cloud, greeting him as he left the café. He looked at his watch. 11:28. Turning left, past a row of empty restaurants he saw the wide blue horizon peeking out from an ancient alley, with nothing therein but an upturned rusty pail and a sleepy little cat returning back from a journey towards him. He went down. The lane led down to the sea, early blue and still. The summer festival decorations were falling down; before multicoloured banners adorned the old navy lampposts from one end of the tiny marina to the other. Beneath their shadows the boats rocked gently at the sinking pontoons, protected by the great sea wall, hard and grey and battered. In the shallower parts the water greened and as he looked through the clear surface he could see sunken glass bottles on a bed of tiny shells, broken and still. He followed the coastal path to its conclusion, the beginning of the park, not before turning back to face the sea again, and running his tired eye over the old war shelter built upon the brown rocks. Hopping over the iron fence, he laid a leather notebook at the foot of the building, and covered it with shells. It was 12:45.

Walking on through the aged trees through the entrance of the park he watched the leaves fall and scatter around him. They cleared, and he came to the pond. There was a lady in a business suit eating a sandwich on the bench. He sat down beside her, with his white bag on his lap. She looked a little unnerved and he felt her stiffen as he sat down. He sighed. The cool clouds sailed overhead, darkening patches on the pond outstretched before the two seated figures. The shadows moved across the surface of the water quickly, leaving a trail of shimmering flashes in their wake.

“Wonderful day, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes.” she answered quickly. There was a silence, and then she wrapped up her sandwich and left. That’s the way it is, he thought. His watch read 1:14. He really must press on.

The park led to a leafy walk to the school building, a few hundred yards; where he looked into gardens at empty houses, their residents all at work save for an old woman asleep in a lounge chair on her lawn. The houses gave way to the playing fields and the playground. He stopped and stared through the wire mesh. The miniature forms danced like yellow leaves under the high sun, now descending. The great square yellow building sat over them, proud and graceful. He saw his sailing clouds departing across the tops of the trees, without any trace or exhaust, leaving only a ripened blue sky. There wouldn’t be many more days like these. On that thought he began to sweat, and his throat tightened, like a taut rope wrenching his stomach upwards to be hoisted out of his mouth. He wiped the moisture off and stared up at the sun looking down at him, illuminating his form against the yellow clay bricks of the school, his shadow ever lengthening. He paused. Snapping his face towards the ground, he inhaled until his chest hurt, spat and coughed and gripped the wire fence, leaving red imprints on his palms until he made his decision, opened his eyes, jerked his neck up, exhaled deep and long and felt a flourish of serenity pass over him, like the clouds he saw on the water. Time to go.

Opening the double doors up the steps, down and down the empty corridor he walked, quickly, past the translucent half-windows containing flashing giggles between walls full of splashed paint on cream paper, glued shapes and scrawled names, fingerprints and faces, digits and glyphs that streamed past his head as he started to run, feeling their presence behind door after door until he reached the number he desired.

He pushed the door aside, and stepped in, not even hearing the noise or the blurry clambering forms in front of him while he clasped the strap around his shoulder. And as he opened the white bag and revealed its contents to the assembled class, the sun swept across the window pane, filling the room with a hot white radiance, causing the metal barrel in his hands to sparkle brightly, lighting up their smiling faces.

2 poems by Elest Ali

In the banal drudgery of never green enough

In the banal drudgery of never green enough,

Time falters and slips up to reveal

Those things which lurk in my blind spot.

There, hunched like an angel of misfortune against its scythe,

Life’s titan reserve terrifies me

And I am sorry that I was not

Enough to cherish what is escaping us now.

 

Welcome, Friend.

I’ve filled my heart again,

And You have come to empty it out.

The cycle will dip, drag on begrudgingly, pick up momentum, and eventually resume.

Like a second chance at lost childhood. One more time. And one more time.

And though they are numbered, I let them take my breath away.

Because the sea is imitating the sky tonight;

Because the hand which rested on my head

Could not have been more necessary;

And because that boyish cartwheel in our dash across the field,

Was the only thing missing from this evanescent perfection.

 

 This world is ugly but so full of Your beautiful things.

And I know that You love its stumbling people for their flaws and for their yearning,

And I know You love us, because You have let us taste this and be humbled

And I know You love me, because You take back now what you had shared

Because this brittle vessel is not big enough,

And overwhelmed, my heart has come so near to breaking.

Thank You.

Breath of Conclusion

Breath of conclusion blows through the autumn leaves.

Like them I hang my weary head in sad resignation.

Yet no wind to claim me, this year’s ending.

None to extinguish a spark willing to find meaning in its light,

when it leaves only darkness behind.

They whisper through me, ‘Open your eyes, little one. It is never finished.

Not yet. Not like this.’

And if these stones, these trees could talk,

They’d say that every man dies, yet not completely.

Traces of his absence forever linger for what resumes to mourn

…and pock marked with the loss of endless souls:

that is why this world is so sad.

And if these stones, these trees could talk,

They’d say that every man lives, yet not completely.

Traces of absence forever linger for an enduring humanity to mourn

…and pock marked with an endless loss of innocence:

that is why this world is so sad.

 

2006

 

Poem by Paola Di Gennaro

Raison perdue

Juggling with drops of thought

In a silent hilly self.

Drawing a cigarette that I will never smoke

A tattered doll on a windy beach

Who stares at the waves’ surf

White and broken

Soul taking liberties

With a crunchy landscape

Melting in the sand.

The strings of harmony in my brain

Are loose as grasshoppers’ smiles

I thought there was something to find

Somewhere, in our lost garden.

I woke up in a deserted light of rusty specks

I called you, and you were waiting in the wrong place

In the wrong time, in senseless candour.

I shouted over the shyness of time

On a silly but stable sea-hearted rock.

Opening a window at which I will never show

Naked on a white fur carpet of idiosyncrasies

Which nurtures ambitions

In place of me

Eyes eager for meeting a miracle

With a sour echo

Dissolving in the walls.

The past of instincts on my fingertips

is feeble as an old man cry

I saw a truth, once, that was sticky

As squeezed petals on cold marble.

I stood up in the soft gentle breeze of pearly drops

Out again, looking for my muse coming in desire

And I stopped there

at the edge of divinity.

Short Story and Poem by Shahrzad Saeedi

Guise

I never look for trouble intentionally, but trouble always has a knack of finding me.

I had recently been invited to a fancy dress party and I figured I would have a good time there, but the outcome of the party was far from what I had expected, and it changed people's perception of me. One of the reasons I was looking forward to going to the party was because a girl I like called Jane had also been invited. As it was a fancy dress party, I decided to go as a mad scientist, like the character Doc from Back to the Future. I donned a white lab coat and I wore a rubber bald top with an attached grey wig. In hindsight, this was a poor costume choice. Anyway, I arrived at the house where the party was being held and once inside I felt like I had stepped into an alternate universe. I took in the grandness of the house which almost resembled a mansion. There was a chandelier in the hallway and elaborate furniture decked the living room. The music was blaring and many people had already gathered inside the house. The other partygoers were wearing an assortment of costumes, ranging from a Victorian lady to a pirate. The atmosphere of the party was buzzing and there was a good vibe. I heard someone call my name from the crowd of people, 'Vincent, you're going bald!' I looked around and distinguished my friends who greeted me. One of my friends commented on my costume and said that it suited me. Jane was among my friends and she had dressed up as a Flapper from the 1920s. She was wearing a short, silver sequined dress and she looked stunning. I really wanted to tell Jane that I liked her but I couldn't risk rejection. As more guests in costumes flocked into the house, the party was well underway. I and my friends mingled and made the most of the party. I overheard a girl telling her friend that Robert Mills was at the party. Robert Mills is a young, famous actor. Sure enough, I soon saw Robert in his costume. Mills had dressed up as a gangster and his outfit consisted of a hat and a black pinstriped suit. Mills was smoking a Cuban cigar and he was standing with a group of girls who were practically swooning. He looked complacent, as though he was the greatest thing since sliced bread. I perceived Robert approach Jane and they started having a conversation. I suddenly wished I had chosen a better costume. How is a mad scientist supposed to compete with a slick gangster? My costume seemed to confirm my eccentricity, whereas Mills' costume made him appear suave and powerful. As the two were talking, Mills looked nonplussed and then angry. I can only assume that Jane was not interested in Mills. Mills started loudly criticizing Jane in a malicious way. Mills took a puff of his cigar and nonchalantly breathed cigar smoke into Jane's face. Something inside of me snapped and before I knew it I had gotten into a fight with Robert. It all seems like a blur now but I remember punching Robert in the face and him getting a bloody nose. We were grappling with each other, and I could hear people around us shouting but I didn't care. Eventually, Robert knocked me out cold. When I woke up I saw Jane and my friends standing over me looking concerned. Jane asked me if I was alright. Maybe I was delirious, but I felt like all that mattered was that Jane gave a damn about me. One of my friends congratulated me and said I was a dark horse. He added that most of the guys at the party felt like punching Robert in the face too, on account of the fact Mills was too handsome and up himself. Jane thanked me for standing up for her. I later told Jane about my feelings for her and we're now going out together. I'm not advocating violence or anything. I hit Robert because of his behaviour towards Jane. The scuffle between Mills and I appeared in a tabloid newspaper the next day under the headline, 'Robert Mills attacked by lunatic at party'. I guess I really do resemble my character from Back to the Future.

Re: Answers

 

Knowledge leads to money, power-

fall.

Looking at the world

from a different perspective,

does anything make sense

if everything makes sense?

The world is flat because I say so.

If that's wrong and this is right

then where is left?

 

The meaning of life is ----------------.

God will tell you when you see Him.

 

The alphabet soup spells out 'FULL'

but he's still hungry for answers

to questions no one asked.

2 Photos by Amanda Flynn

4 poems by Juliet Powys

Sisyphus

You have become a mountain range.

I scale the relief map of your reclining body, and survey
Your hoods, ridges and canyons.

I set up camp, and attune my breathing
To the bulrush sway of your many grasses,
Pressing my cheek against the smooth stone ledge
Where I have laid rocks for my fire -

Sticks and tinder.

& in the morning I will smear the ashes
Warrior-like across the bridge of my nose, and strike on,
To reach your cloud-ringed summit,
& prostrate myself in view of your circling eye.

Snow

And I wonder how many people have seen London at this altitude

Seen the million mouths opening and closing in the snow on the ridged rooftops
And the beautiful nudes knitting the aerials up to the brooding sky

Whether the lights behind the blinds spread like new warmth through the
Floorboards and keyholes, and how many people are standing out on fire escapes
Like me, with stronger roots in the sky than in the covered ground.

Wreck

Strangling heat under the jetty, spikes
of old nails, bent up between planks
crook and rust, tearing at the skin,
channeling off to harpoon the sun.

Closeness gnarled and spiky and fierce,

Boxes thrown in the river and
found as curses by divers
exploring a wreck.

Curses brought down the ship.

Cooling against the glass
like sleeping snakes, hands -

pinned down in a glow of light.

Quailing softly
the moonless faces whisper up
at the crackling energies of
a swimming sky.

 

Fly

Returning from Paradise to light, a thin caul between the teeth, suggestion. Later you will twist& tear, frantic, unpacked cases withholding grace. The veil is lifted, in the failing light. It seems you have missed what called you home.
Behind grey eyes, a semblance of monotony, monochrome days with the bloodflowers gone, drained away& blocking the sink. The river still flows. The tower is still standing. But there is a heaviness in you which has evaporated, lost in the steam of the kitchen. & you cling to the drawer-handles, clothes horses as you’re lifted upwards, heels grazing the ceiling, your apron paisleyclose to your blushing face. Feeling your way, your ringless hand reaches the open window. Fly. There is nothing left for you here.

Short Story and Photo by Jeremy Kearns-Watts

The Arsonist

There was nothing to do. That was his cry. The deviant's lament. He had thought long and hard about reasons and possibilities and still all he had was that single exclamation of emptiness.

There was nothing to do. The usual places to waste that time before death that some call life were all closed. Bars and clubs held nothing for him as the sweet destruction of the senses that they offered, he had experienced. Cinemas were empty halls, a wealth wasted for two hours of escape. Bowling alleys, too far away. Ice rinks, filed with annoyances. Hunting, against his principles, and a rich man's game. Sports competition failed to excite. And besides, he had done it all before.

There was nothing to do. Sleep, a waste of time. Foreign countries and new experiences, too far away. So while his 'friends' slept, he stalked the night streets of the town. He scratched into some dirt everything that could be done, and methodically he crossed them out until nothing remained.

Was all that was left for him work and death? He thought furiously for something through which he could escape monotony.

The matches. He had brought them out so he could light tobacco, but that was a pointless venture as he could see nothing in it, he had already experienced it and it's cost to pleasure ratio failed to meet his demands.

The matches. What could he do with them. He lit one and watched the flame till it burned his fingers then he threw it onto the dirt. He lit another and let it fall onto some discarded paper that had drifted there. It caught, and flared, burned, flickered, and charred the earth. The last of it died on the ground, but in his eyes, the fire grew.

It grew, first as an ember, smouldering deep within and then as the idea took hold it grew higher and higher until, in his mind, it encompassed his entire being.

Fire, his conscience wailed and so did he, a long piercing death cry as the fire consumed the remnants of his soul. He ran. Faster and faster. Left and left again. Across the road, brakes squealed and metal crunched as cars smashed into each other, but he was long gone. For one mile then another, until suddenly. He stopped.

He was outside a small two story apartment block. The doors and windows were boarded up. It's paint was peeling and cracking off revealing a timber frame construction. On the left a tree, long dead, had fallen, sundering the roof. On the right some dead creeper threaded between the bars of an architects idea of a balcony. Graffiti covered the lower part of the wall and obscured the name of the building on the sign in front.

He climbed the tree, collecting dry bark and branches as he went. Inside only the room with the caved in roof was damp, the rest were as dry as he could have hoped for. He moved downstairs and started to gather debris in what was once a child's bedroom at roughly the centre of the building.

Even as he piled the kindling higher in his mind he was still unsure of his actions. Unsure of what his body was doing. Unsure of his purpose in this abandoned house. He still had the last residue of society's model, it was simply silent.

After a time the materials had covered one wall of the room, obscuring the decorations of a childhood. Chairs, wardrobes and a mattress finished what was, initially, a heap of bark and paper. He stood back admiring the work then reached for the box of matches from his coat's inside pocket. He lit three and cast them onto the pile. They soon went out.

He pulled a book from the mound and set it alight instead. It caught, and he set it about the pile. Soon the whole wall was ablaze. He walked backwards to the door frame, eyes dancing over his work. The fire leaped and soared. It crawled over the walls, smouldering paper and moving further into the framing timber of the building.

The fire setter became aware that he must escape. The fire was now consuming the entirety of the building. He ran to the front door. The main panelling was far too secure but it had framing windows with a single sheet of plywood, secured at the top by two lightly hammered nails. He pulled it from the bottom, breaking the piece in two and cast that which he held back for the all consuming flames. He kicked the glass out and escaped. Quietly he crossed the road in front of the building and turned.

The fire was not obvious inside the place. Flames licked the roof and down the tree on the top floor. Behind the boards a bright orange glowered at him casting a glowing shadow of his darkened form. The sky was brightening. It was nearly dawn, and as the flames leaped higher and the roof collapsed; the sun was revealed and it seemed that the whole world was on fire.

He was content for a few moments. He had spent the time he had, and yet, he felt and emptiness. He walked home and thought about his actions. Carefully he justified them with himself, nobody had was hurt, it hadn't been lived in for years, and slowly the feeling of shame faded. His conscience was silenced. His nature was changed. The last vestiges of his humanity died.

For a week he slept, going about the tasks of life in a laze. He noticed little and ignored most of the people that tried to engage him. It was as if he wasn't there.

He went back to the site. It was not forgotten by the government's services. Probably accidental, natural causes the police had thought. So he was able to walk over the ground. He ran his fingers through the ash. Why did he set the fire? Because there was nothing to do? Surely he could have found something. His conscience was speaking up, his nature reverted. Like a phoenix his humanity was reborn and it sobbed.

He knelt in the blackened earth as questions swamped his mind. He cried out as he tried to answer them. Wept when he had no answers. And collapsed when he realised that he had no reason to live.

For that was why he had set the fire, he now realised. It was something he had not already done. This was why he had not set more. Nothing appealed to him. No aspect of life could hold his attention.

There was nothing to do. There was nothing to do. There was nothing to do. There was nothing to do. There was nothing to do.

And it was this that he repeated, endlessly, forlornly, hopelessly, as they found him, as they took him away, as they investigated and judged. All this time he repeated, he did not eat, he did not sleep, drink or think and so the last traces of life left him three weeks after the fact, with the words on his lips.

There was nothing to do.

Part of a Story by Harry Buckminster Richman

The Memory Paradox; a story in many parts (Parts 1-3)

Part One: The Remembrance of Steven Adler or In Lieu of an Introduction

I pride (or pity, depending on how I feel) myself on being able to remember a whole lot of stuff - the example I oft will cite is that I can tell you the highlights of the summer 1994 season of MTV's The Real World, which may not seem an achievement, but I assure you, this is something I have never made any attempt to remember and have googled maybe once in the last fifteen years. But the problem is that when you remember a whole lot of stuff is that your memory is full of just that; stuff.

This is where I must explain how my memory works - I could fairly easily tell you the Guns n' Roses line up that recorded Appetite (and in what order they left) or even summarize all four seasons of Saved By The Bell, including why the Tori paradox totally mattered. But, what I can't tell you is the name of the girl with whom I shared a few cigarettes a couple of months back - memories of real life seem so inconsequential compared to memories of pop culture.

Everyone's mind works differently, but from quite a few years of getting to know mine I can say that I can pretty much remember most abstract events in an historical context. That is to say, I doubt I will remember exactly when these events happened, and potentially may confuse a few but usually don't entirely forget the event entirely.

I have come to the conclusion that this is possibly why I don't like anything that has too many sequels, i.e. more than one, as I am slightly unable to keep track of which bits happened in which volume. But yes, I remember a hell of a lot of junk.

Part Two: In Want of a Time Machine

Smell is often cited as the main cause of deja-vu, but there are many things far more powerful and vivid than deju-vu and these are most certainly not caused by smell.

I recently bought Jagged Little Pill by Alanis Morissette. I probably should have known better;  she is one of those musicians who, for me, mean something very powerful yet slightly theoretical. Certainly, she reminds me of the past, but which past I cannot be sure. Am I sure that hearing You Outta Know reminds me of being younger, or could it be evoking a memory of something like Reality Bites, from which my mind weaves a fictional past of missed opportunities for myself? It is not at all clear, for I can defiantly remember listening to Alanis Morissette, but do I necessarily care that I listened to Alanis Morissette when I think I listened to Alanis Morissette? And, does it really matter for me?

When I listened to a few songs, it caused a brief, but rather real, panic attack. What I cannot tell is whether the anxiety over Ironicwas due to a fear that 1995 is gone for me and not coming back  (what I hope it means), or was it because something since 1995 has told me that Hand In my Pocket should signify something happening, something far greater than what is happening. If it is the latter, I should be quite worried, as it could potentially mean that this and many other memories are not memories at all, that my fears are not real fears. In effect it can mean that anywhere between one and most of my memories are simply implants, things I have tricked myself into thinking I am supposed to think. Take the song Don't You (Forget About Me) as an example; anyone who has ever seenThe Breakfast Club will find it hard to listen to this song without feeling like some sort of monuments breakthrough in their life should be occurring to coincide with the lyrics urging that you 'don't forget about me'. Now, apply that same feeling across the entire body of music you have listened to.

Let it be noted, that this is very different from the expectationscinema and television can give off. If it is true that I am remembering a fictional past, based upon ideas gathered from various, and forgotten, corners of popular culture, then it must be that I have, in some point in my history written these expectations to memory as facts.

As an exercise I am trying to recall the origin of my memory regarding the song 'Blister in the Sun' by the Violent Femmes. For me it evokes an incredibly hot summer, and being very hot whilst doing almost nothing at all. But, did that really happen? This song was released some years before I could possibly remember any event like this happening, so it would be extremely strange were I to have heard that song more than once, yet I would be impressed were I to have so thoroughly imprinted 'Blister in the Sun' upon one chance listening. However, the song is featured prominantly in the late nineties John Cusack film 'Grosse Pointe Blank', which is seemingly set during the summer in small town America. It is not inconceivable that it is this that causes me to think that I heard, and enjoyed, that song at some point in the mid to late nineties, and have saved that to my memory as an occurrence in my life. Does this invalidate all cultural resonance this song has with me? Or at least, should it?

Part Three: An Interlude to Ensure the Proper Recollection of Daria

She Knows she's a winner.

She couldn't be any thinnner.

Now she goes to the bathroom

And vomits up dinner.

-Daria, February 1998

NEXT MAGAZINE

Hi Everybody, 

this weekend I'm working on the magazine, and hope to put all of the submissions onto the blog, which will become a regular practice - it may solve all of our problems, and let all of the submitters have a forum to read the others' work, and have their work read by the largest community possible.  The submissions have been put in here according to the date that they were sent to me, I'm sorry if this means some are given a more desirable place than others, it really has no bearing on the amount I enjoyed them.

Cracking, bravo, whatnot!

William