Of Cabbages and Kings ISSUE 5

Of Cabbages and KingsJournal of King’s English Literary Society ISSUE 5

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‘O Oysters, come and walk with us!’The Walrus did beseech.

‘A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,Along the briny beach [...]’

*But four young Oysters hurried up,

All eager for the treat:Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,

Their shoes were clean and neat—And this was odd, because, you know,

They hadn't any feet.

Lewis Carroll‘The Walrus and the Carpenter’ (1872)

Of Cabbages and Kings 1

Re-reading Carroll’s marvellous poem in preparation for this piece, I was reminded of nothing more than my own experience of entering into academic life: the seductive appeal of a grand walk, grand talk (‘Of cabbages and kings’ no less), and then the growing horror that one is re-ally there to be consumed! These days if you ask just about any ac-ademic about his/her work you’ll soon be regaled with complaints about the amount of time spent on administration and reporting on our activities at the expense of actually doing research and writing. But like many academ-ics, too, if my life were repeated, I’d fall for the same trick all over again. That’s because there really isn’t another job like it, where every day brings new intellectual challenges, new fora in which intelligent students and learned colleagues debate the thing we all love, literature. And film. My own re-search and teaching trajectory has taken me unexpectedly into film studies: I found myself teaching film before I set out ex-plicitly to publish research on it.

There is a natural anxiety among literary students about venturing into film studies: unwonted, be-cause our disciplined awareness of narrative and our training in cultural history affords so much insight into feature film in par-ticular; but also appropriate, be-cause film studies is a discipline of its own, and it is salutary to recognise where and how one is not an expert when venturing an opinion on an Other medium. I learned the hard way, editing be-tween 2007 and 2010 Studies in Australasian Cinema, coming up against my own limitations, but learning also from the myriad contributors about the multiple approaches to the study of film. It is a classic case of how the academic career one thinks one is heading for doesn’t quite end up that way: when I returned to undergraduate study at the University of Sydney in the mid 1990s, I majored in Italian, and was expecting to focus on Euro-pean literature for a Phd. Instead I find myself as one of Britain’s (indeed Eu-rope’s) few full-time special-ists in Australian literature: a strange cabbage indeed at King’s

College London, though in the Menzies Centre for Australian Studies the College hosts one of the most substantial and active centres for the study of Austral-ian culture, politics, and history outside the country. And ironically it is through teaching and research-ing film—mostly while outside Australia—that I have come to learn most about what, in the end, has turned out to be one of the most abiding and intel-lectually challenging trajectories of my intellectual career: the approach to understanding—again from the outside—the complexities of historic and con-temporary Aboriginal Austral-ian cultures. The entanglement of these and British/European epistemologies is what drives my own understanding of both Aus-tralian-literature-as-world-lit-erature and mid-nineteenth- to early twentieth-century ‘English’ literature. It is a long way from the Romance languages that were originally supposed to be the focus of my interests in the humanities. But not so far that you can’t follow my oyster non-footprints through the sand. Creative writing is, on the face of it, another remote and unexpected thing for an up-and- coming literary critic to find her or himself publishing. I for one have known from the start that I make a terrible poet! But noth-ing teaches the craft of writing, to which we are all attuned, so well as attempting to create liter-ature. It also demands taking off our lit-critic hats without losing any of writing’s disciplines: no easy task. What is more, it under-scores how important it is that literature departments sponsor

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Good dayliterature lovers!

Welcome to the first sparkling in-

stallment of this academic year! To loyal returning readers and new alike,

may we proudly present an array of creative writing, interviews, reviews and

poetry for your discerning palates. But first, I believe a few announcements are

in order. Autumn has blustered and blown a few additional leaves into our journal and

with them an elusive newcomer, the topical ar-ticle. Indeed, Of Cabbages and Kings is the place

for the worldly and unworldly to meet at the in-spired fingertips of our fellow students.

We are grateful to Dr Hender-son for sharing his delectable portion of professorial wisdom with us, to our artistic contributors and of course, to everyone who wrote in, we cannot wait to read more. If you don’t see your name in print this time, don’t be disheart-ened. Whether it’s current commentary, streams of consciousness, or a small trip down a rabbit hole for tea parties and mad hatter discussions, we want to hear from you.

The very best and enjoy,Louise, Sophie and Geri ª

new writing, and support local authors by providing them with engaged audiences. It is the spe-cialists in Australian Literature at the University of Sydney who first inspired me with this key function of contemporary aca-demic life. There was an urgency in their work at the time: ‘Aus-tralian’ literature still needed, and really still needs, special attention even in the country of its birth; it still needs to grow in a specific ‘nationalist’ sense. It is not least for that reason that hosting read-ings of new Australian writing at the Menzies Centre remains one of the most satisfying aspects of my work at the College. But what I have learned from that experience goes for any type of new writing: hence its support of creative writing makes me particularly delighted to contribute to Of Cabbages and Kings. After more than ten years of being consumed by the odd unexpected Walrus, something about the constant engagement with old and new art still makes

me ‘All eager for the treat’. And I know it will sustain you also: when you too are a fatter, older, and wiser oyster! ª

Dr Ian Henderson,Menzies Lecturer in Australian Studies,Department of English Language and Literature, King’s College London

the tempest at twelfth niGht

The Globe’s production of Twelfth Night was a tri-umph in front of a stoic crowd in the September rains…

As the love-sick Duke Orsino strode onto the stage to a torrent of rain, his glassy-eyed first mono-logue was rendered greater than in many productions due to the decision of Tim Carroll, the director, to choose a mature actor for the part. This maturity, contrasted with his pitiful longing for Olivia, granted a more sincere perform-ance than those who would have been better suited to the role of Romeo than of comic hero. It is evident from first glance that this is an all-male cast. How-ever, the actors playing the roles of Viola, Olivia and the Nurse maintain over-emphasised feminine at-tributes, which makes it evident the audience isn’t meant to believe they’re women. Rather, to accept that this Comedy is being performed in its truest and most traditional form. The double and triple-crossing of gender roles—one of the most enduring jokes throughout—is made even

more entertaining with the extra confusion of having an all-male cast, as Shake-speare first intended. Olivia, played by Mark Rylance, engages in some of the play’s most entertaining scenes along-side Stephen Fry’s trium-phant Malvolio. The pair develops superb chemistry through Fry’s dogged and embarrassingly devoted portrayal, coupled with Rylance’s hilariously femi-nine turn as a paragon of womanhood. Even in the scenes of bawdy humour, often in which Olivia is

involved, Rylance’s Olivia balances between being the guide of Renaissance etiquette itself and a pow-erful, yet fascinating force within the play. No production of Twelfth Night, however, can be complete without its delicious subplot, egged along by the raucous char-acters of Sir Toby, Sir An-drew, Feste and Maria. With the aid of a conserv-ative and yet effective art department, they gener-

ated many laughs amongst the drenched groundlings. An utter delight upon a soaking Sunday night which had the audi-ence laughing even up un-til Feste’s final song—well, the groundlings would have endured that weather in Shakespeare’s London. The beauty of the Globe is that we can experience his plays in the setting for which they were written, with the all-male to boot! ª

Aggi Cantrill, 1st yearEnglish Language & Literature

Twelfth Night will be trans-ferring to the Apollo Thea-tre in the West End, open-ing 2 November 2012.


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5 minutes with James KinG

After earning a first class degree in Applied Sport Science at the Univer-sity of Edinburgh, James King went on to obtain an MSc in Performance Psychology. He currently runs his own personal training studio and is a guest lecturer at several London Universities. Alongside his sports career, King has been pursuing his interests in Journal-ism, writing for large publications such as Men’s Health, GQ and Marie Claire. I caught up with him to find out about what it is like to be actively working in British Journalism today.

Describe how you first got into working in Journalism.

I’d always been interested in the field so I pestered Men’s Health for a very long time. Finally I got an opportunity through a contact! It’s my favourite publication to write for.

What restrictions are you given when writing an article?

The only restriction is usually a word count—200 words for a shorter article and 1000 words for a longer one.

What is your favourite part of writing articles?

I enjoy converting Sports theory into practical activities and hopefully in-spiring readers, providing a catalyst for change!

And your least favourite?

My least favourite part of writing ar-ticles is having to describe exercises or movements. Sometimes it can be dif-ficult to do so and it seems unneces-sary... A picture is sometimes worth a thousand words!

What advice would you give to someone who wanted to write for a large publica-tion such as GQ or Mens Health?

Be an expert in your subject area and build meaningful, sincere relationships with everyone you work with. The tea boy may end up as the Editor ten years from now. And also, always get out and ask for opportunities—no one will ask you. ª

Interview by Rachael Martin, 2nd yearEnglish Language & Literature


symphony man

The strings of the piano grow louder, strum, strum-ming the tune of the masked man. A candle flickers in the distance, tombstones rising from the upturned earth. Wriggling worms draw nearer. Voices of the damned rising above a silent reverie. This is the silence of the children, the flailing limbs of resting corpses. Rot. Ooz-ing pestilence of unkempt flesh. Your deathbed, your soil ridden divan. Tip of the hat, your demise will not be commiserated. C o n d o l e n c e s . Grievances. They usher you forward with offers of remembrance and fulfill-ing gratification. But these words are not for you, not your own to consider or ac-cept. Poor student of reality. Have you entered a world in which you cannot escape? The coffin awakens near your side. Eyes like dusty marbles. Something you had expected? Considered? No, no she had swayed to and fro with the rest. A flower in the breeze, her twirling color of

life slowly subsiding around her. You too have begun to fade. Fingers sleepily ca-ress the piano keys as the crowd awaits your answer. The finale! Begin slowly, arise, crescendo. Sharp, sharp notes, high and low. A wave of trumpets filling your ears. Pounce on the ivory squares. Demand the attention. Push them higher, the twirl-ing flowers dancing across the stage. The coffin closes, worms drawing back into dark holes. Children’s laugh-ter erupts around you. B flat, E minor. Strum, strumming the keys! There will be no earthbound settee for you on this day, no pity. The notes linger in the air, rebounding between the seated ruby cushions. A woman holds her breath; the note cannot escape. She reaches, her arms open wide, a plumage of hair resting atop her powdered forehead. You watch the tension rise beneath her chest as the last upsurge builds beneath your fingertips. Her lips draw a breath, and then a magical bravado. The trill, the flow-ing F. Three octaves above middle C and your fingers grow persistent. Swaying

harmony between pianist and libretto. Joy in this mo-ment! Resting corpses be damned, this is not a day of demise. Never a day of fail-ure. Tip of the hat, you have mastered the keys. Choral symphony of brilliance, Ode to joyous jealousy. Vienna’s jubilant applauding audience wishing you well. Ovation, yield to concentration. Your ended fortissimo, avoidant of musical limbo. Success, the crowd awaits your recep-tion. ª

Michelle Salyga, post-graduateEnglish: 1850 to Present

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British film and the rediscovery of a cultural voice

There is a problem in Britain of misidentifying the characteris-tics of what it is that makes our cultural output so particular, and so valuable. Much great British Film is shaped by the literary influences of the great writers who constitute the heart of our cultural history and identity. However, often what is seen as representa-tive of British film, and our cultural identity, is work that whilst indebted to this cultural precedence, is unable to ap-preciate, or at least manipulate, what makes this identity really unique. Often it seems to me that the predominate tone of British literary and cinematic culture has been set by a com-bination of the humour, imagi-nation and energy of Dickens and Evelyn Waugh, and the tradition of the provincial, el-egant social commentary of Eliot and Hardy. This is of course a tiny selection of the excellence that current writers and filmmakers draw from, but feels to me to be the quintes-sence of British storytelling.

What often happens is that popular British filmmak-ing divides itself into camps that draw on only one of these styles, and from them only on a superficial level. They seem to translate this tradition as being characterised by either a vague sense of the comic and quirky, derived supposedly from Dickens and Waugh, as repli-cated in such films as Notting Hill, and The Boat that Rocked, or an unconvincing devolu-tion of something resembling Eliot’s brand of realism, with films like Layer Cake and Har-ry Brown seemingly convinced that cockney accents, a little grittiness and a supposed en-gagement with ‘real issues’ is enough to constitute a piece of satisfying British culture. What both these camps fail to acknowledge is that all these writers perfect their genius by balancing the comic with the poignant, exploring specific ways of life to reveal contem-porary and universal truths. The problem is that our cultur-al output has somehow ended up characterised by films that seem like pantomimes of a to-kenised ‘British’ style. The strange thing is that there is a significant body of British work that manages to innovate and modernise

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Dead Man’s Shoes

Tyrannosaur

Red Riding


as much precision as has the choice lines of Hemingway. What they perhaps lack, is what makes British film so great. In Tyrannosaur the cinematography has the elegance of one of George Shaw’s Coventry paintings, whilst its characters display a realism and warmth remi-niscent of the inhabitants of Hardy’s Casterbridge, or Great Expectations’ wonderful ‘Aged P’, they are awkward and vulnerable like the por-traits of Lucien Freud, and we feel their pain as acutely as we do that of Michael Hen-chard, Tess, Sydney Carton, and Maggie Tulliver. We do not tend to produce films with the ice-cold style of Drive, or of Man Men, but it is this very ten-dency to minimise aesthet-ics, and embrace humility, the absurd and the poignant, that perhaps best represents the true identity of British film-making and culture. ª

Frank Polatch, 2nd yearEnglish Language & Literature

whilst appreciating and ta-king advantage of its cultural inheritance. And significantly, it is genuinely emblematic of a British style, quite distinct from its American contempo-raries. Films like Paddy Con-sidine’s Tyrannosaur, Shane Meadow’s Dead Man’s Shoes and Channel Four’s trilogy of films for television, Red Rid-ing, for instance, manage to achieve that balance, perfect-ed by Dickens, of humility and profundity. They are seri-ous and often emotive works that make space for warmth, empathy and humour. When compared with recent Ameri-can films like Drive or A Sin-gle Man, or even HBO’s Mad Men we see how cultural, and especially literary precedence, have shaped our nation’s cul-tural output. These two beau-tiful and startling films, and one almost absurdly chic programme, demonstrate the influence of such writers as Fitzgerald, Henry James andto a lesser extent Hemingway, on American culture. They are works heavily reliant—over reliant, we might argue—on stylism. Fitzgerald in par-ticular shows in his work a wonderful ability to craft only the most elegant and urbane prose. His presence is felt in A Single Man, wherein every shot and costume has been placed as carefully and with

film noir

Waves break, crash, fall.

Been here, seen all—In the reflective dingy sidewalk

written the story of abandoned moments,passing by into history’s shadowy sleepless reel;

All were here onceand nonealone. ª

Margaret Kavaras, 3rd yearInternational Affairs


mind-Brain concepts-coma

I can’t tell what you thinkHooked up to wires

Measure your brain wavesLapping at the shores of science.

You tease like a dollFin—there you go!Strike the surface

A faceA gainstA pane

WhyWhen a sea is still

Does it churn below?Why do flamesHurt and burn

While embers glow?

And then you go …Your mind a lost twinTo this mortal vessel.

I know you are there.

CrawlSwimFly

Back to meAnd oh, do not go

Where I cannot follow. ª

Sadie Hale, 2nd yearEnglish Language & Literature

muh-ther

Mother my bones and my blood,Mother my heat.

Mother the earth of my clay,Mother my feet.

MyMother to me,

HerMother to her,

HerMother to we,

Three.

Stone soldiers, silent pack.In the darkness, stretching back.

I moveCrack

We moveClap

BoomSlack

My howl now

Echoes,Ours.

I can feel the threads that pull me back,Attached,

Crack.I can plant my legs among the rocks,

Arms locked.Thunder chokes:When weather

Beat butNever broke. ª

Sophie Develyn, 2nd yearClassics with English

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untitled

It was the day of the parade. For around two months people had been running round the coun-try carrying a torch to celebrate something more than the pas-sage of time. Today the torch was going to pass through my town. I made my way to a junc-tion along the route. I stood on a patch of grass by the side of the road. Above I could see varicoloured flags hanging from the houses. Crowds had begun to form each side of the road. To my left a young man was climbing a tree. He perched on a capable branch and held his hand above his eyebrows. To my right was a father holding a little girl, dressed in white, upon his shoulders. Music floated above the growing crowds and the late afternoon sun. Coming from close dis-tance we could see vehicles driv-ing along the road towards us. A convoy of policemen on mo-torbikes rode past. The crowds cheered, whooped, and laughed. Afterwards came three tall buses —red, green, and blue. On the top deck of each bus drummers beat their drums, each hit jarring with the music floating above us. A few minutes after the buses, a lone runner, dressed in gold, came past, her right arm outstretched, holding the torch. It was not much—a thin, sim-ple, metal rod, with a flamelet

glowing on the tip. The flamelet seemed to grow larger and red-der as the runner travelled away. The crowd cheered, whooped and laughed, took pictures and waved their flags. When the runner had gone out of sight I looked around where I was standing. Every-thing was now at quarter speed. The sky, the brickwork, and the flags, were grey. There was no longer any colour. Everyone began looking at their hands—hands, including my own, which were newly wrinkled. I, turning, could see the young man in the tree, falling slowly to the ground, falling apart into pixels of black and white. I could not see anything behind him for a bright white light. The little girl was no longer a feather but now deadweight of white skin upon her aged father’s back. Beneath, his knees were giving way. I brought my own hands to cover my face as I, weak, be-gan to fall forward to the ground. With my mind ticking away, the last few seconds of film making its final revolution around the cassette spool, I hoped someone, anyone but no-one, would knock that runner to the ground to spill the flame over so that everything would ª

Douglas Lafferty, 3rd yearLaw

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untitled

Back you come nowslowfast as faded memory

reliving its ceremonythrough the torn mouth that you made

bare legs first, then fingers feel cold fluid, you that it laid

it was thereignoring dark dreams, bed bred

it was there,that warm reward regrouping

no more now, the egg

Back you come nowfeel the cracked shell

recall the smellThrough the rasping fists of light

and even the pink-blue deathly evensong before the night

it was thereebbing its blood to spring moss

it was theredisregarded, unfostered

to love you, what loss! ª

Frank Pinsent

unrequited love

Two clenched fists.Inside yours is a key

I open mine;Empty ª

Jenny Morrison, 1st yearEnglish Language & Literature

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Of Cabbages and KingsJournal of King’s English Literary Society

EditorsLouise Wang

Sophie Merrison-ThiemeGeri Ross

DesignGeri Ross

ArtworksSam Cleal, Flora Neville

Contact & submissions:[email protected]

pay what you can at arcola theatre

Every Tuesday evening, the Ar-cola Theatre in Dalston sells sixty tickets for as much (or lit-tle) as you can afford for their current productions. Our advice: come early, tickets will be sold on a first come first serve basis. For more info go to www.arco-latheatre.com. ª

national theatre entry pass

If you’re aged 16-25, sign up for the National Theatre Entry Pass and buy tickets for thea-tre performances for just £5. You can also bring along a mate for £7.50. For more info go to www.nationaltheatre.org.uk. ª

enGlish literary society play proposals

This year’s English Literary Soci-ety play proposals are taking place on Thursday 1st November. Please come along to vote for your favourite play and help select our upcoming productions!This is an excellent opportunity for creative students to try their hand at directing, producing, acting or behind the scenes roles! If you’re in-terested in pitching to direct please email [email protected] before Wednesday 31st October. ª

Of Cabbages and Kings ISSUE 5

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