Annie and Lucy's list of book recommendations from their English Literature professors! (This is our first summer without a reading list and we cannot think for ourselves) Andrew Bennett D. H. Lawrence, The Rainbow James Joyce, Ulysses (Skip the first three chapters) Theo Savvas Thomas Hardy, Tess of D'Urbervilles Thomas Mann, 'Death in Venice' (short story) Henry James, Portrait of a Lady James Joyce, Ulysses Carson McCullers, The Member of the Wedding William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying William Wootten John Richardson's four-volume biography of Picasso Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, Penguin Translation (and all of Pessoa's Poetry) Stephen James Rosamond Lehmann, Dusty Answer Ad Putter George Eliot, Silas Marner His own book, Medieval Love Letters (lol) Noreen Masud Noreen Masud, A Flat Place Stephen Cheeke Marcel Proust, Remembrance of Things Past ( Swann's Way ) translation by Scott Moncrieff and Terence Kilmartin "I fe...
Hands and Macbeth By Lucy Coleman In Shakespeare’s Macbeth, the word ‘hand’ is used 37 times. As the play charts its central characters’ gradual untethering from reality, I postulate that the hand acts as a symbol of connection; not only to the characters’ community, but also to the divine, and to the body itself. Throughout the play, both Macbeth and Lady Macbeth intentionally distance themselves from their bodily and physical realities in order to externalise and avoid their guilt. Through the changing roles of hands, Shakespeare shows the physical and linguistic dissociation his characters induce to be the thing which ultimately drives them to their deaths. ‘Give me your hand; / Conduct me to mine host’ (1.6.28-29). [1] The first act of Macbeth regularly returns to hands as synecdochic symbols of support. To take someone’s hand is established as a sign of allegiance: Macbeth is praised for not shaking hands with the ...
Room 2 - The following is a test to see how a journal format will work on here! "I do not care at all for men, but London - it is Life!" - Katherine Mansfield 3pm I'm lying face down in a park in the middle of Shoreditch; my aching belly pressed into the hot earth, watching the trains go by. No wall on any street here is untouched - this pretty spray paint patchwork. I'm making peace with the idea that this could be the best moment of my life. I'm making peace with the idea that every moment could be the best moment of my life. I have some cheap red roses by my side and sun on my back. Heat rises from the ground like like its the hot breath from an upwards-looking face, leagues below me. Earlier, after I accompanied Room 4 for her belly button piercing (her eyes scampered up and down the the ceiling when the needle went through - I watched her disembodied for a second, but she said it didn't hurt) and we had coffee at a place with flowers on the table, w...
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