Issuu

Synthetic Violet

Michaelmas 2023 Issue

Cover Artwork by Eugénie Tucker

Editor’s Notes As winter continues to spiral towards its darkest point, we increasingly find ourselves gravitating towards Light. Indeed, while the hiemal sun, rising above the niveous haze of dawn is but short-lived, luminosity is added to the night through the brilliant illuminations of festivity, flickering candles and firelight, and our own small and golden reading lamps. We find ourselves looking for the stars in the crisp winter sky, or the reflections of a lunar beam on frost, or the gleam of mirth in souls and eyes.

i. Impression Sunrise - Claude Monet (1872)

This issue of Synthetic Violet too emerges from the shadows of November, aspiring to the radiancy of the season and creative expression. As thus, whilst we fill the long hours of darkness with celebration and enlightenment, awaiting the sunlight’s midwinter conquest over hibernal shadows, it would be fitting to reflect on the nature and representations of Light, and consequently, Darkness. Indeed, the intricate duality of Darkness and Light has a rich history of representation across various cultures and centuries, often stemming from Natural phenomena. Built into the earliest foundations of geography, with the rising Orient and setting Occident (from the Latin for rising (oriens) and setting (occidens) of the Sun), it resurfaces in literature through metaphors, in philosophy as expressions of knowledge, in religion as salvation, and in the many shades and chiaroscuro of art. These often intertwine and become synonymous – it seems that amidst tenebrosity, be it physical or intangible, our world has always revolved around Light. One can see this from the very origins of the universe, where primordial darkness is conquered by luminescence. We speak of the dawn of time, la nuit des temps, where light is a symbol of salvation and life. From the Greek mythological Χαος (Hesiod Theogony) to God’s creation of light out of darkness (King James Bible Book of John 1.1-5) to enduring celebrations of luminary symbolism in religious contexts (such as Diwali - derived from the Sanskrit meaning ‘row of lights’) light seems to have taken on a prodigious religious significance.

An instance of such spiritual symbolism fits well with the impending festivity of Christmas. Indeed, the worship of Christ is identified with light and salvation. This is manifest in the star that guides the magi to Bethlehem and within certain artistic depictions of the nativity and annunciation. The Light of God or iii. The Flight into Egypt Elsheimer c.1609 Christ represents salvation. There is also, however, a certain reassurance within the cover of darkness in the Flight to ii. Nativity at Night Geertgen tot Egypt, but still a sense of safety and redemption in the lights Sint Jans c.1490 of moon, stars, and fire. What is even more interesting within the seasonal context is the very date of Christmas, so close to the winter solstice, the turning point where daylight begins to return. Here, a religiously symbolic manifestation of light seems to have merged within the pattern of Nature. Despite the varying explanations for the origins of this date, the correlation with the pre-existing Roman festival of Saturnalia is striking. Named after the Roman god Saturn but also coincidental to the winter solstice, and later associated with the festival of Dies Natalis Solis Invicti (from the reign of Aurelian in 274 AD), this is a striking example of the celebration of Light and the Sun. Indeed, this worship of an anthropomorphised form of Natural phenomena did not exist solely in GrecoRoman mythology, but rather permeates a variety of cultures to this day. As such the Sun represents divinity of light in its loftiest form, and the assimilation of this light within Christianity, as recognised by St. Augustine, demonstrates the power of its symbolism. And yet, while Christ may be the ‘Sun of Righteousness’ and Helios the fearsome charioteer driving his blazing horses across the sky, divine Light can also assume political significances. Indeed, whilst the Egyptian God Ra is synonymous to the might of the Sun and thus associated with the ruling Pharaohs of Egypt, Augustus in his accession to control of Rome (27 BC – 14 AD) also manipulated his representation through light. This was achieved this by association to Phoebus Apollo, a God often affiliated with light and enlightenment, poetry and the arts, prophecy and healing. Centuries later the v Aureus of AugustusApollo with Lyre c. 15-13 French monarch Louis XIV would also form a similar BC association, becoming known as Le Roi Soleil, a symbol which represented power and might but also a renewed interest and expansion of the arts, much like in the reign of Augustus. iv. Louis XIV en Soleil/Apollon dansant le Ballet royal de La Nuit c. 1653

These ‘suns’ thus dawned on their own new ‘Golden Age’, this same Golden Age of prosperity which seems to have been associated with Saturn’s mythical rule (or Hesiod’s five ages of Man) and was commemorated in the Saturnalia. Here it is clear that the divine and spiritual merge, light representing at once power and divine right of rule, something seen even in the striking account of the deification of Julius Caesar and his ascendance to the stars (Ovid Met. XV. 745-870). Yet more light was to follow, taking on a significance beyond the divine ushering in a new age, nonetheless illuminated: The Siècle des Lumières or Age of Enlightenment (ca. 1685 – 1815) This period saw a significant number of scientific, philosophical and literary achievements, spurred on by intellectual endeavour and innovation. Reason was knowledge and knowledge was vi. Joseph Wright of Derby - A Philosopher Giving that Light. And yet, such representations of Lecture on the Orrery, in which a Lamp is Put in Place of the wisdom in association to light, such rational Sun (1766) symbolism of luminosity was by no means a new concept. Lucretius, writing in the 1st Century BC, (in a philosophical work drawing on Epicureanism), makes use of an interesting allegory: Nam veluti pueri trepidant atque omnia caecis in tenebris metuunt, sic nos in luce timemus interdum nilo quae sunt metuenda magis quam 90 quae pueri in tenebris pavitant finguntque futura. hunc igitur terrorem animi tenebrasque necessest non radii solis neque lucida tela diei discutiant, sed naturae species ratioque. For just as children tremble and fear everything in the blind darkness, so we in the light sometimes vii. And yet how dark can knowledge be... An Experiment on a Bird in an Air Pump - ibid (1768) fear what is no more to be feared than the things that children in the dark hold in terror and imagine will come true. This terror, therefore, and darkness of the mind must be dispersed, not by rays of the sun nor the bright shafts of daylight, but by the aspect and law of nature. De Rerum Natura (III.87-93 see also 2.55-61,6.35-41. 91-93 = 1.146-148.) Similarly, Plato’s Allegory of the Cave and theory of the Forms is one which draws heavily upon such ideas of Light, Darkness, and knowledge. The fire of the cave is in our reality the Sun, and everything we see or feel to be real are just reflected shadows of the perfect form.

Here, despite the light we live in darkness, true light can only be achieved by knowledge and philosophy. Thought and philosophy then, may also bring light, constantly fighting the darkness of ignorance an inexorable conflict between the juxtaposed ideals of Light and Darkness. This incessant contrast between ignorance and wisdom, despair and salvation, death and eternal life, also predominates within literature. Night can represent danger and hides evil deeds as Macbeth famously commands darkness: Stars, hide your fires / Let not light see my black and deep desires. (Act I. Scene IV). Contrastingly, Love is like sunlight, omnipresent and all-encompassing where in Tolstoy Levin feels as though the sun is coming near him when Kitty approaches on the ice …и ни на секунду не теряя ее из вида, хотя и не глядел на нее Он чувствовал, что солнце приближалось к нему (Anna Karenina I.IX) There is a recurring representation of Darkness as the antithesis, the natural hostile and opposing force of Light. Yet if we were to see only see this juxtaposition, we would be left in the throes of a monochromatic world where shadows have no place, where colour falters on the precipice of juxtaposition. However, as in Monet’s Impression, Soleil Levant, it is not luminosity, but colour that creates the vividity of the rising Sun in our minds – a fascinating detail which contributes much to the sublimity of the painting. And then again, if the light of the golden Sun is so clear amidst the light of day, what of the moon, what of the stars that shine in the brightest night? On one hand it could be argued that nothing compares to the gleaming divinity of the Sun. All those who try to fly too close to its power fall into the gloom of darkness or death (as Phaethon, Icarus, and Lucifer). Everything thus exists in the permanent indomitable shadow of the Sun, a luminous one admittedly, but a shadow nonetheless. The moon and stars are but pale nebulous penumbras of light, empty and weak reflection of reality. Can darkness and light be ever reconciled, then? Or are their opposites too definite? Surely, what is not light is darkness. And yet, the artist, the poet, the philosopher, the soul, does not, cannot, seem to ever truly dissociate them – Light cannot exist without Darkness nor does the Sun rise or viii. Man and Woman Contemplating the Moon Caspar David fall without the Evening Star. Friedrich (1774-1840) Detail: Venus, the Evening Star

And yet with the invention of the artificial lighting, the ease with which we create dawn at dusk, the spreading contamination of electricity that threatens to blot out the constellated sky, the even more pragmatic focus on rational enlightenment, what concern need we have about the nuances of Darkness – let alone Light? While the increasing awareness of the need ix. Joseph Mallord William Turner - Fishermen at Sea (1796), to preserve Darkness seems to draw us away from our ancestrally innate affinity for Light, by removing excessive artificiality and simulation, what is sought is not only the physical comfort of real illumination, but its spiritual, and intellectual might. A careful balance only ever achievable through the contemplation of Natural luminescence. This is interestingly evoked in one of the lesser-known works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle a semi-autobiographical epistolary novel. In a vivid passage he argues that Nature is the best source of understanding of the divine Creator, which can be seen by examining the perfect minutae of the natural world, or by looking up at the stars: Wisdom and power and means directed to an end run all through the scheme of Nature…If the man who observes the myriad stars, and considers that they and their innumerable satellites move in their serene dignity through the heavens, each swinging clear of the other’s orbit—if, I say, the man who sees this cannot realise the Creator’s attributes without the help of the book of Job, then his view of things is beyond my understanding. The Stark Munro Letters III. Home 15th October 1881 Whilst the focus is rather on the magnitude of nature’s astrological ordinance, there is an overwhelming sense of man’s view of the world as eternally turned up in contemplation to the lights of the sky. Here the light of the mind and the light of God merge into a single, bright and clear picture which has the ability to inspire faith, hope, and enlightenment all at once. However, it is not always in the sun that such revelations appear, nor always in the night. Instead, what links and blurs the distinction between Light and Darkness goes beyond their physical manifestations. Their essence survives within the liminal realms of intangibility, as expressions of various conditions of life, surges of hope and eruptions of knowledge. As echoed in the well-known incipit of Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities, the constant co-existence of darkness and light and knowledge and ignorance is forcefully permanent, a blindingly interminable confluence of indefinite shapes and revelations that rise and sink above the hazy indistinction of sight.

Perhaps it is colour, then, that wins, or better still an insubstantial expression of luminosity, that shining intelligence and spirituality of the mind, a beacon of knowledge and hope for humanity, and ceaseless, indomitable yearning for enlightenment. A light that permeates the soul, inspired by outer brilliance, shining forth from our minds, expressed through artistic or literary emotion, these bearers of light surrounded by the eclipsing and revelatory hues of darkness, whether illuminated from within or without.

- Carole Tucker, ed.

x.Woman Before the Rising Sun - Caspar David Friedrich (1818-20)

Table of Contents Editor’s Notes

Poetry Theme of the Issue: Winter Light

Poetry

The Hinge

soft landing

Gentle Melancholy

These Halls of Time

O Mid-(summer)-night

Up up and away

Voile au Vent

Moor

Le Déclin

Prose

Let Your Hair Down A Little, Edward Small

An Everlasting Bond

Literary Recommendations

Closing Notes

Notice

Art Pad Quandary

- Anonymous

Poetry Theme of the Issue: Winter Light The Darkling Thrush I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-grey, And Winter's dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. The land's sharp features seemed to be The Century's corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I. At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware.

- Thomas Hardy c. 1900 originally titled ‘By the Century’s Deathbed

Grey Evening When you went, how was it you carried with you My missal book of fine, flamboyant Hours? My book of turrets and of red-thorn bowers, And skies of gold, and ladies in bright tissue? Now underneath a blue-grey twilight, heaped Beyond the withering snow of the shorn fields Stands rubble of stunted houses; all is reaped And trodden that the happy summer yields. Now lamps like yellow echoes glimmer among The shadowy stubble of the under-dusk; As farther off the scythe of night is swung Ripe little stars come rolling from their husk. And all the earth is gone into a dust Of greyness mingled with a fume of gold, Timeless as branching lichens, pale as must, Since all the sky has withered and gone cold. And so I sit and scan the book of grey, Feeling the shadows like a blind man reading, All fearful lest I find the last words bleeding: Nay, take this weary Book of Hours away.

- D.H. Lawrence c. 1916

Weep you no more, sad fountains Weep you no more, sad fountains; What need you flow so fast? Look how the snowy mountains Heaven’s sun doth gently waste. But my sun’s heavenly eyes View not your weeping, That now lie sleeping Softly, now softly lies Sleeping. Sleep is a reconciling, A rest that peace begets. Doth not the sun rise smiling When fair at even he sets? Rest you then, rest, sad eyes, Melt not in weeping While she lies sleeping Softly, now softly lies Sleeping.

- John Dowland (1563-1626)

Art

- Eugénie Tucker

Зимнее утро Мороз и солнце; день чудесный! Еще ты дремлешь, друг прелестный — Пора, красавица, проснись: Открой сомкнуты негой взоры Навстречу северной Авроры, Звездою севера явись! Вечор, ты помнишь, вьюга злилась, На мутном небе мгла носилась; Луна, как бледное пятно, Сквозь тучи мрачные желтела, И ты печальная сидела — А нынче… погляди в окно: Под голубыми небесами Великолепными коврами, Блестя на солнце, снег лежит; Прозрачный лес один чернеет, И ель сквозь иней зеленеет, И речка подо льдом блестит. Вся комната янтарным блеском Озарена. Веселым треском Трещит затопленная печь. Приятно думать у лежанки. Но знаешь: не велеть ли в санки Кобылку бурую запречь? Скользя по утреннему снегу, Друг милый, предадимся бегу Нетерпеливого коня И навестим поля пустые, Леса, недавно столь густые, И берег, милый для меня.

- Alexander Pushkin 1829

Winter Morning Frost and sun—the day is wondrous! Thou still art slumbering, charming friend. 'Tis time, O Beauty, to awaken: Ope thine eyes, now in sweetness closed, To meet the Northern Dawn of Morning Thyself a north-star do thou appear! Last night, remember, the storm scolded, And darkness floated in the clouded sky; Like a yellow, clouded spot Thro' the clouds the moon was gleaming,— And melancholy thou wert sitting— But now ... thro' the window cast a look: Stretched beneath the heavens blue Carpet-like magnificent, In the sun the snow is sparkling; Dark alone is the wood transparent, And thro' the hoar gleams green the fir, [Pg 101]And under the ice the rivulet sparkles. Entire is lighted with diamond splendor Thy chamber ... with merry crackle The wood is crackling in the oven. To meditation invites the sofa. But know you? In the sleigh not order why The brownish mare to harness? Over the morning snow we gliding Trust we shall, my friend, ourselves To the speed of impatient steed; Visit we shall the fields forsaken, The woods, dense but recently, And the banks so dear to me.

- Transl. Ivan Panin

Зимняя ночь Мело, мело по всей земле Во все пределы. Свеча горела на столе, Свеча горела. Как летом роем мошкара Летит на пламя, Слетались хлопья со двора К оконной раме. Метель лепила на стекле Кружки и стрелы. Свеча горела на столе, Свеча горела. На озаренный потолок Ложились тени, Скрещенья рук, скрещенья ног, Судьбы скрещенья. И падали два башмачка Со стуком на пол, И воск слезами с ночника На платье капал. И все терялось в снежной мгле Седой и белой. Свеча горела на столе, Свеча горела. На свечку дуло из угла, И жар соблазна Вздымал, как ангел, два крыла Крестообразно. Мело весь месяц в феврале, И то и дело Свеча горела на столе, Свеча горела.

- Boris Pasternak 1958 16

A Winter’s Night Snow, snow the whole world over, Sweeping it, end to end. The candle burned on the table, the candle burned. Like a crowd of summer midges flying to the flame, droves of snowflakes swarmed against the window pane. Snow-blasts moulded circles, arrows on the glass. The candle burned on the table, the candle burned. Against the ceiling’s brightness dark shadows falling, crossed ankles, crossed wrists, destinies crossing. And two shoes dropped with a thud to the floor, and waxen tears dropped from candle to dress. And in the grey-white, snowy darkness, all was lost. The candle burned on the table, the candle burned. A draught from the corner blew: temptation’s heat raised, like an angel, a crucifix of wings. Snow all through February, and time and again the candle burned on the table, the candle burned.

– Transl. A.S. Kilne

L’Hiver C’est l’hiver sans parfum ni chants. Dans le pré, les brins de verdure Percent de leurs jets fléchissants La neige étincelante et dure. Quelques buissons gardent encor Des feuilles jaunes et cassantes Que le vent âpre et rude mord Comme font les chèvres grimpantes. Et les arbres silencieux Que toute cette neige isole Ont cessé de se faire entre eux Leurs confidences bénévoles. – Bois feuillus qui, pendant l’été, Au chaud des feuilles cotonneuses Avez connu les voluptés Et les cris des huppes chanteuses, Vous qui, dans la douce saison, Respiriez la senteur des gommes, Vous frissonnez à l’horizon Avec des gestes qu’ont les hommes. Vous êtes las, vous êtes nus, Plus rien dans l’air ne vous protège, Et vos coeurs tendres ou chenus Se désespèrent sur la neige. – Et près de vous, frère orgueilleux, Le sapin où le soleil brille Balance les fruits écailleux Qui luisent entre ses aiguilles.

- Anna de Noailles (1876-1933)

Art

- Eugénie Tucker 19

Odes I.IX – Vides ut alta… Vides ut alta stet nive candidum Soracte nec iam sustineant onus silvae laborantes geluque flumina constiterint acuto? Dissolve frigus ligna super foco large reponens atque benignius deprome quadrimum Sabina, o Thaliarche, merum diota. Permitte divis cetera, qui simul stravere ventos aequore fervido deproeliantis, nec cupressi nec veteres agitantur orni. Quid sit futurum cras, fuge quaerere, et quem fors dierum cumque dabit, lucro adpone nec dulcis amores sperne, puer, neque tu choreas, donec uirenti canities abest morosa. Nunc et Campus et areae lenesque sub noctem susurri composita repetantur hora, nunc et latentis proditor intumo gratus puellae risus ab angulo pignusque dereptum lacertis aut digito male pertinaci.

- Horace c. 23 BC

Odes I.IX – Winter See how Soracte stands glistening with snowfall, and the labouring woods bend under the weight: see how the mountain streams are frozen, cased in the ice by the shuddering cold? Drive away bitterness, and pile on the logs, bury the hearthstones, and, with generous heart, out of the four-year old Sabine jars, O Thaliarchus, bring on the true wine. Leave the rest to the gods: when they’ve stilled the winds that struggle, far away, over raging seas, you’ll see that neither the cypress trees nor the old ash will be able to stir. Don’t ask what tomorrow brings, call them your gain whatever days Fortune gives, don’t spurn sweet love, my child, and don’t you be neglectful of the choir of love, or the dancing feet, while life is still green, and your white-haired old age is far away with all its moroseness. Now, find the Campus again, and the squares, soft whispers at night, at the hour agreed, and the pleasing laugh that betrays her, the girl who’s hiding away in the darkest corner, and the pledge that’s retrieved from her arm, or from a lightly resisting finger.

- Transl. A. S. Kline

Art

- Eugénie Tucker

Poetry The Hinge the entrant crashes from the library To the garden. it is thriving, perfectgreen. here the little faeries lie and the entrant shall be queen. though, flat against us, books reside, Under lock and key. the teacher plucks one for his class. for the entrant, he gathers three. Perhaps he will teach my entrant that her home is inbetween: with i. who humbly bind her worlds. and she who shall be queen.

- Sydney

soft landing

- Alice Shaw

Gentle Melancholy Restless truths and a weary soul Are all I have to share Within my chest gapes a barren hole With nothing else to spare No fortune could persuade And fidelity has failed A devil-pact you have made Where degeneracy has prevailed To have lived, loved and lost Each love more convoluted But what price did it cost For your love to be so polluted? Trees have bared and days clouded Ever since your departure Like a sunbird with the clouds shrouded As the gale on land whips harsher How long have I loved you for? Darling, ever since the womb Prevail it shall evermore Until I'm buried beneath the tomb

- Joyce Duan

These Halls of Time Shadows flicker on the wall Their waxen figures interweaving too faint, diaphanous, they fade within the yearning hall and wooden panels, breathing. Along the dusky corridor, a maiden’s hair with flaxen braid reflects the watchman’s firelight. The ambassador, the king observes the hounded deer that flees across the clouded Prussian stream in vain towards the city streets. Where dimly lit candle-wicks Illuminate the scene a figure sits her face aglow glancing from the golden frame into the Stygian swirls Of the tenebrous carpet seams. Across this river’s swarthy tide a ship abreast of shore sinks into the wild wide the haze-filled grove of the ocean’s midnight moor. A child cherubin smiles at the Arcadian pasture glens the mischief making gods under their divine cloaks, the smoky clouds drift past the workmen’s trade a bench enclosed by rowdy crowds and wares and beasts and shade.

In centre an empty stand supports another ornament so finely wrought with silver threads pearlescent waterfalls that chime and keep the watchman’s weary walk in cadence with eternal time. It sends the lunar beams to distant Egyptian sands scattered in a million stars or across the mountain lands The others extinguish behind the austere tapestries. Crepuscular the moon, Wans pass the waxing dawn Echoes the whiteness of the loom and wavers in the pond.

- Carole Tucker

O Mid-(summer)-night O Midsummer night O splendid night O choking night O helpless night O loving night O night with notes of beauty There’s a tear in my eye from staring into the ether so long; leaning and watching the stars Through your telescope (sorry I forgot to return it to you) O midnight O black night, O velvet night, O tender night O omnipresent night. The smell of coffee burns at the back of my throat, I’m dying feet dangling over metre-thick carpet, off a table, in the hallway: The moon is always here. O sanguine summer night O fruitful night O clocks that chime each hour O cold frostbite night O heart-cramping night as I stand, back to the ocean hands gripping the railing, coat blowing in the non-existent wind O passionate night O singing, choral night as I fumble with my seatbelt looking out the window while we hurtle through the countryside I’m spinning High-pitched melismas a top G-flat, ringing notes of memory? O gracious, splendid night O night of melodies: dance with me O midsummer night O splendid night O choking night O helpless nightO loving (living?) night; O night with notes of beauty. -

Alice Shaw

Up up and away A place I do not know Away A place I want to know Away Metal birds in the sky They try, they do To take me up up and away But all that goes up must come down Pages of stories For a couple of hours at a time They take me up up and away But it does not last Falling into pillows, losing myself to sleep Sometimes, occasionally It takes me up up and away But most of the time I do not go anywhere I do not go up up and away I live for moments when I forget I forget that away is a place I am not And instead I am here I am not away I am here and I am me But away awaits me Someday. Someday I will return there Away, I am on my way. I promise.

- Anon

Voile au Vent De temps en temps il passe un navire un grand et noble bateau aux voiles blanches qui semblent se fondre au soleil comme des bougies de cire. Elles se penchent dans le vent qui brûle la mer, qui fouette la roche sombre, Ces voiles si légères qui gonflent et puis retombent. Elles flottent éphémères au loin vers l’horizon s’écrasent sur la mer avec fracas sur le pont.

- Carole Tucker

Moor Sheathed under mist, Obfuscated by clouds That coalesce and drift, Moor rests, undulating, As if hewn from on high, Giants smoothing its sleepy curves, Silent, stock still, Still as the stone which forms its heart, Asleep, mantled in fog, Above it, hen harriers screech, But still moor is silent, Above it, kestrels hover, But still moor is silent, Mottled by sun peeking through clouds, Resting vestige from Earth’s beginning, Moor is silent, Waiting, watching.

- Alexander Walker

Le Déclin Décris-moi la montagne là-haut au-dessus de la mer ce roc insolite et solitaire qui monte vers le ciel et quitte la terre. Toi tu regardes de haut les vagues glissantes et sonores, qui s’étalent sur le sable, qui se collent contre la roche nue Tu ne crains pas la mort. Toi parmi ces nuées bleues qui se rapprochent des cieux tu t’éloignes de ce monde médiocre qui se meurt. J’aurais pu t’écrire. J’aurais pu gravir ta montagne Là-haut dans les nuages cachée par les larmes épaisses de la nuit. Il aurait sans doute plu cette nuit là Je serais arrivée, au crépuscule de minuit, au sommet tu m’aurais aperçu une ombre blanche contre les rochers noirs. Je t’aurais surpris. Oui, Malgré ton caractère implacable, tes yeux perçants qui lisent dans les cœurs, qui ont connu toutes mes pensées et l’essence de mon esprit. Tu m’aurais vu Et tu aurais compris.

- Carole Tucker

Art

- Eugénie Tucker 33

Prose Let Your Hair Down A Little, Edward Small It was a dark and stormy night - it really was, promise - and I was doing the dishes. The dishwasher had been broken for two years at my cousin, Janet’s house by then. Dinner had been baked potatoes, which I had been telling her that I disliked since we were eight or so. She served them with tuna ( I only buy tuna for my dog, Algy, who is named after Algernon Moncrieff from the Importance of Being Earnest. That was my friend, Alice’s idea), and cheese (which was Swiss, but must have come from the airport, it smelt like Algy after he’s been swimming). Janet had gone upstairs, so I stole away to the bread bin and reached in for a tortilla. Hearing footsteps behind me, I stuffed it in my pocket and turned around to explain myself. It was Janet’s tabby cat, Sally, policing her kitchen. I gave a loud sigh and walked to the fridge. When I finally found a jar of marmalade, alongside at least seven of marmite, I opened the lid, praying that it wouldn’t be mouldy. I hadn’t had a proper meal all week, between lemongrass yoghurts and veal sandwiches with mayonnaise that wasn’t Hellman’s. Caught in the lid of the marmalade was a ginger hair, which was odd, because Janet’s hair was black, and so was mine. Sally, who was a tabby, definitely did not have ginger hair. Tossing the hair aside, I spread my tortilla with about a third of the jar of marmalade, and yawning, I made my way upstairs. My bedroom stank of artificial lavender, from one of those oil diffusers that people say send them to sleep, but just make me sneeze. Tossing and turning in bed, I finally walked the two long metres to the window and opened it, rain dampening the carpet immediately. Looking out onto Hadrian’s wall at night, I began to miss my native Devon countryside. I was trying to enjoy myself at Janet’s house, which she was making difficult, between going to work all day, and feeding me food that reminded me of my school days - which was when I noticed another ginger hair squeezed between the window and the windowsill. Maybe Janet had a cleaner who was ginger? Janet had too much time on her hands to want a cleaner. She worked half as many hours as me and was paid double the salary. I worked in a bookshop. Well, at least I loved my job at Buckland Abbey. The next day was stormy too. As I sat down to breakfast with Janet, I asked her; ‘Do you know someone with ginger hair?’ Bluntly, she replied that she didn’t, and why did I care? ‘I keep on finding ginger hairs around your house, Janet. Did you know that?’, the answer was a blunt no.

‘Janet, do you think something weird is going on?’ ‘Let your hair down a little, Edward Small! I’m sure it’s nothing. They could be blowing in; you know how stormy it’s been.’ ‘Alright.’ I suppose I'm a bit of a worrier. Janet has been telling me about it for rather a long time now. Despite my constant warnings, I couldn't help thinking something was a little fishy about the ginger hair matter. In the night I was tossing, turning and sneezing again, all because of the fake lavender stench. I reached for the mug of water at my bedside, decorated with yet more lavender. Then, I found another ginger hair in the water and groaned. For one thing, this was getting disgusting. I didn’t want hairs in my water. Again, I rose to open the window. Janet would be annoyed - I was ruining her carpet with the damp. After I let the air in, I turned around to go back to bed, when I heard someone singing. Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme Remember me to one who lives there For she once was a true love of mine. Tell her to make me a cambric shirt Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme Without any seam nor needlework And then she’ll be a true love of mine I knew the song, if only the Simon & Garfunkel version, and saw a ginger haired girl, dressed in white, sitting on the wall outside. First, I wondered if she was alright. Then I remembered that it was a little odd to be singing at night in midwinter on Hadrian's wall, wearing only a nightgown. This was one of the biggest storms I’d seen in my lifetime. I reconsidered, and in my pyjamas, I ran outside, sprinting about a hundred metres from Janet’s tall, red-brick house. I looked back at the wall and realised the girl was gone. In the morning, the storm finally finished, and I drove to Birdoswald Roman Fort, to ask if anybody had seen a ginger haired girl wearing white, sitting on the wall, singing. Of course, I was stared at as if I were mental, even when I showed my National Trust ID. Despite being glad I’d likely never see these people again, I was determined to find out who on Earth this ginger haired girl was, and why she was leaving her hairs around my cousin’s house. When I returned to my car, a hair was waiting for me in the glove compartment.

That night I stayed awake, with my birdwatching binoculars, waiting for the girl to come and sing on the wall. Eventually, I fell asleep, but when I woke up, I heard a new verse. Ask her to reap it with a sickle of leather Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme The girl climbed down from the wall and began to walk eastward. In her arms, she was carrying something. I watched her for a while, until I nodded off after about half an hour, leaning on the windowsill. When I woke up in the morning, my head was still in the midst of Janet’s pansies, but I was holding something in my hand. I touched the smooth object in my hand, and was horrified to find a leather sickle, covered in ginger hair. That wasn’t possible- was it? Again, when night came, I slung my binoculars around my neck. And gather it up with a rope made of heather. For then she'll be a true love of mine As I predicted that morning, I owned a bouquet of ginger hairs, tied up with a heather rope. Perhaps I was going mad? I googled ‘Hadrian’s wall ginger hair girl’. Only one link came up. Praying that it gave me at least a little insight into what was happening, I clicked. The link led me to a blog, written by a historian named Joseph Carter. It gave me all the information I needed. Janet shouted a message to me, to say that she was leaving for work. She was an office manager in Hexham. I shouted a reply, distracted by my new-found information. ‘Yearly, there are storms in North Yorkshire around the 30th of May. Myths say a single person is lucky enough to see a young, ginger haired woman, who leaves them gifts every night: her ‘lover’. As legends go, in the 16th century, Martha Ailward allegedly lost her rather demanding husband to a fire at Scarborough fair. He requested of her a series of homemade gifts, impossible to create, so that she might meet him again in an afterlife. After her second husband also died, and she covered both graves with parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme, the villagers accused her of witchcraft and she was killed. Every year, she seeks her husband, Ailward, and leaves a young man near to Hexham gifts every night, in return for something. However, supposedly, she will eventually tire of her ‘lover’ not granting her anything in return. Her ‘lover’ will die in a grave of parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. However, this is merely a myth, and there is no historical evidence to prove that Martha Ailward was even a real woman, currently.’ 36

Edward Small was not going to let his hair down now. Racing around my bedroom, I wondered what on earth I might do to avoid my death. Google isn’t always correct- is it? It once told Alice she had a broken thumb, when she had a papercut. It said Algy had cancer when he had a wart. I couldn’t trust a search engine with my life. Humming quietly to myself, I could only think of one thing I could do, supposing the legend was true: Give Martha Ailward something in return. That evening, after drinking about six bottles of Pepsi, I pulled out my binoculars, hoping it wouldn’t be the last time I used them. If you say that you can’t then I shall reply Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme Oh, Let me know that at least you will try Or you’ll never be a true love of mine. Love imposes impossible tasks Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme But none more than any heart would ask I must know you’re a true love of mine. I hadn’t sung since I was forced into the school choir with Janet when I was ten. Even then, they’d banned me from singing aloud. When he has done and finished his work, Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme Ask him to come for his cambric shirt For then he’ll be a true love of mine Was Martha Ailward asking me to go out into the night to meet her- surely I shouldn’t go to a mysterious woman in the dead of night? This was a matter of life and death, though- wasn’t it? It was a matter of whether I’d see Algy and Alice again. There she was, sitting on the wall, holding a cambric shirt- with no seams or needlework. Martha Ailward handed me the fabric and I- I took it from her hands, willingly. Again, she sang, and I could have sworn I smelt sage, or thyme. At last, she came to the last verse. I don’t know what came over me. Perhaps it was the dizzying herbal scents, the pepsi or a spell, but my hatred for singing disappeared. Together, Martha Ailward and I serenaded.

Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme Remember me to one who lives there For she once was a true love of mine. All at once, she disappeared, like ghosts, or vampires do when they’re killed in films. If you ever see a ghost like Martha Ailward, you'll realise that there's no immense relief or satisfaction at all. In fact, it's rather sad, or perhaps I'm just a rather sentimental person. But sleepily, I closed my eyes, the disgusting scent of oildiffuser-lavender reappeared, and I watched my dream as if it were a play. I saw Martha, young and thriving. Meeting her husband for the first time, crying over his burned clothes. Ravens singing with her before she began to write. Buying cambric, sewing silently. Knotting heather, sharpening leather. And together, Martha, Ailward and I tossed away our parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. End -

Sydney

Art Eternal Metamorphoses

- Alexandra Mackie

An Everlasting Bond Like a raging volcano spewing fierce burning embers, the killer rogue waves of the violent ocean chipped off millions of fragments of cliff rocks. The massive waves engulfed the shore even as I huddled in a corner gazing in disbelief at the vast expanse of the sea. However, it wasn’t the turbulent sea that caught my attention, but a small rocky hill propping up on the sea surface. My goal, my dream, my destiny, the Haven. Yet it was only too far from my eager reach... Each day I trained hard to achieve the impossible, watching the waves lap the shore. Every so often I would venture a bit deeper into the sea, only to be swept back onto the shore. In a fit of frustration, I soon realised that I had to be stronger. Much stronger than I was now. The brilliant azure sky mysteriously flashed its radiance at me as if the answer were hidden in the wispy clouds. Then it dawned on me that it was the gym! I just needed to train harder in the gym. Changing my strategy, I wiped myself dry and headed briskly to the gym. As soon as the gym door creaked open, I felt my senses were overwhelmed by a blast of sweat-filled, and musty air that merged with talent and flair. Somewhat put off by the number of sweaty macho men with muscular frame, I decided to slink away. Then a young girl breezed into the gym boldly and assertively as if she hadn’t noticed anyone else. I followed her, embarrassed. She turned sharply and grinned at me. “What are you doing here?” She queried. I told her about my upcoming accomplishment. She gasped, “Oh my, I want to do the same!” Laughing, we climbed on to the two remaining treadmills and started running on them. Her name was Alice, and this was her first visit to the gym and her daring and assertive gait astounded me. It transpired that the two of us hit it off right away as we had many things in common. To her my name was bit of a tongue twister: Chrysanthemum. But most prefer to address me plainly as Chris. I am good at swimming skills and have short blonde hair and sea-blue eyes. Now with a special friend in tow, our time together at the gym felt rewarding. Alice and I ventured to push each other to our limits, thus reinforcing the bond between us even more. The gym gradually evolved into a second home of sorts for both of us and soon we made friends with most of the regulars to the gym. Our days in the gym turned into a routine filled with laughter, encouragement, and shared dreams. Alice and I pushed each other to our 40

limits, lifting weights, running on treadmills, and engaging in various exercises that would make us stronger and more resilient. The gym became our favourite haunt, a place where we honed our strengths and prepared for the challenge that lay ahead. As weeks passed, Alice and I could feel the changes in our physique and stamina. The sea that once pushed us back with ease now seemed to meet a more formidable opponent. Our shared determination forged a bond between us, and we became a dynamic duo never to be broken. One day, after an intense training session, we sat by the shore, catching our breath. Alice looked at me with twinkling pearls in her eyes. "Chris, we've come a long way, and I believe we're ready. Ready to conquer the sea and reach The Haven.” I nodded in agreement, a mix of excitement and nervousness bubbling within me. The next day, we stood on the shore, facing the tumultuous sea. The waves crashed with a thunderous roar, but this time, I felt a newfound confidence. Alice and I exchanged a determined glance and plunged into the water. The initial resistance was strong, but our training paid off well. Stroke after stroke, we battled the waves, pushing forward with unwavering determination. The salty water stung my eyes, and the roaring sea proved formidable enough to test our resolve. As we approached the rocky hill that marked “The Haven,” a surge of triumph and accomplishment filled our hearts. We had defied the odds and turned our dreams into reality. Climbing onto the solid ground, we couldn't help but celebrate our victory with cheers and laughter. The Haven, with its rugged beauty seemed to have embodied a rare kind of serenity that exists in the midst of rocky wilderness. The once-distant dream was now a tangible reality. Alice and I stood there, catching our breath, drenched but victorious. From that day onwards, The Haven became our sought-after rendezvous. It became a symbol of perseverance, friendship, and the strength that lies within. And as the sun set over the horizon, casting a warm glow on our triumphant faces, I couldn't help but feel grateful for the raging sea that once seemed insurmountable—a force that, with determination and a friend by my side, I had conquered.

Moral - Grit is the key to success

- Tanvi Kommi

Literary Recommendations Mr. Green My Shakespeare (A Director’s Journey Through the First Folio) by Greg Doran 978-1-3503-3019-1 (Methuen Drama / Bloomsbury) This is, in short, an absolutely wonderful book! It is bound to appeal to any practitioner, teacher, or student of Drama or English – or to anyone with at least a passing interest in Shakespeare or the theatrical world in general. Greg Doran requires no introduction. He is one of the world’s great Shakespeareans, perhaps most notable for his period as Artistic Director of the Royal Shakespeare Company for a decade from 2012 onwards – although (as the book reveals) there has been much besides. My Shakespeare therefore represents a fitting conclusion to that memorable decade. It is also a timely publication – appearing, as it does, during the global celebrations to mark the 400th anniversary of the publication of the First Folio (the first printed edition of Shakespeare’s collected plays). In the introduction to My Shakespeare, Doran writes that “If J Alfred Prufrock (in T.S. Eliot’s poem) measured out his life with coffee spoons, I have measured mine in Shakespeare’s plays”. Doran has directed all the plays during his career, and the book’s structure follows the sequence of these productions. It is much more than a dull list though. In fact, this is one of the most rewarding, upbeat and (even) exciting theatrical memoirs of recent years. The scope of the book is extraordinary. There is plenty of theatrical gossip and tittle-tattle. Anecdotes abound – from drinking champagne with Judi Dench to making spur-of-the-moment trips to Cape Town. The book is a kind of glossary of Shakespearean actors and scholars of the last 50 years. Doran appears to know everyone and everything, but he remains modest and questioning throughout his narrative. But My Shakespeare is so much more than just a compendium. The book is immaculately researched, and has been written with style and integrity. Doran’s knowledge and insight are astonishing – as is his memory (as the book moves from production to event to performance over the years). The painstaking research carried out by Doran before each of his productions (including immersive journeys to remote ‘Shakespearean’ locations) is exceptional. There is a great deal to be impressed by in Doran’s learned insights into Shakespeare’s language alone. It is rare to read analyses of the 42

scripts which are so perceptive and penetrating (and yet entirely jargon-free). For example, he writes of The Tempest: “In a sentence seventeen-and-a-half lines long, syntactically erratic, full of Ovidian evocation, which meanders through the spectrum of his magical powers, and the weak masters he has employed to summon sea storms, kindle earthquakes, and it seems to wake the dead themselves, Prospero calls upon the island’s spirits to attend to his decision.” This is refreshing scholarship, delivered with clarity and wisdom. My Shakespeare is also, of course, about one of the great love stories of recent decades. The story of Doran’s partnership with the great actor Sir Antony Sher is an ever-present thread in the book. “We are so different”, explains Doran as he shares breakfast with his husband. “I can’t think how we’ve lasted thirtyfour years and counting. As I watch him enjoy his egg, I think I cannot be without him.” Sher’s heart disease, cancer and death eventually mean that they are separated, of course – and this is another way in which the timing of this book seems to represent something of a new beginning for Doran. My Shakespeare presents a highly convincing image of Greg Doran as an indisputable expert on all thing Shakespearean. It is full of the vital importance of Shakespeare (and of everything else in life that really matters). Completely immersed in the plays, Doran comes across as both passionate and a clear thinker. Never vain or a ‘luvvie’, Doran nevertheless induces admiration and envy with this portrayal of a life enjoyed so fully and with such purpose.

Mr Peat Jack Reacher series - Lee Child Lee Child, the author of the Jack Reacher series of books, came to writing late, following a career in television production. By his own admission, Child’s aim when he set out as an author was to write commercially successful books which would make him a lot of money. He has certainly achieved that, with a Reacher book being sold every twenty seconds somewhere in the world and with over 100 million sales in total. He even chose a pen name beginning with a C because he felt that when books were stocked alphabetically, his would be in the sweet spot of browsers’ attention. The Reacher series is undoubtedly popular, then, but while they have spent a combined 240 weeks in the Sunday Times bestseller list since 2006, they’re not typically held up as literary marvels. Rather, they are often viewed as somewhat ‘trashy’ (perhaps lightweight would be a kinder term) and they are a ubiquitous presence in airport bookshops as travellers look to pick up some easy holiday reading. Nevertheless, and while many turn their nose up at this sort of book, Child – unlike most other ‘lightweight’ crime fiction writers – is curiously feted by the literary establishment. He was crowned ‘author of the year’ at the 2019 British Book Awards and appointed CBE for services to literature in the same year. In 2020 he was one of the judges of the Booker Prize, and his writing process has been the subject of a book penned by an academic at the University of Cambridge, among other scrutiny. This, I think, raises an interesting question of what makes a ‘good’ book and there are, of course, various schools of thought when it comes to that issue. My own reading habits are relatively varied – from what some might consider ‘trash’ through to relatively impenetrable prizewinning books like George Saunders’ Liberation Day (that I secretly hope people see me reading and think I must be more intellectual than I probably am). To be honest, there is probably more of the former than the latter on my bookshelf. However, as reading rates decline my sense is that there is more, not less, snobbery around literature, and it strikes me that the most important thing is that people are reading full stop. If, like me, your attention span is shorter than it might be (and if you like fast-paced stories with plenty of action) then I can certainly recommend a Jack Reacher book over Christmas. With typical commercial nous, Child deliberately wrote them so that they can be read in any order. My only caveat would be not to bother with those written in collaboration with Child’s brother, Andrew, as they are widely viewed to be less enjoyable. However, there are still twenty or so written by Lee Child solo, from 1997 to 2019. The Hard Way (2006) might be a good one to start with.

Poetry as escapism Night Sky with Exit Wounds - Ocean Vuong “If you must know anything, know that the hardest task is to live only once” Winner of the T. S. Eliot Prize 2017, Ocean Vuong’s debut poetry collection is lyrical, intimate and dripping with Vietnamese history. It experiments with language, structure and format, all the while tackling love, loss, and what it is to be a queer person of colour in the 21st century. Through his verse, Vuong succeeds in making some sense of the mess of the world that we live in; from finding the deeper meaning in the mundanities of our everyday lives, to grappling with trauma and grief, giving us escape and joy through his masterful words. Content warnings: War, Death, Sexual content, Homophobia, (Gun) Violence Poems to Live Your Life By - chosen and illustrated by Chris Riddell “If buildings were paper, I might feel their drift, see how easily they fall away on a sigh, a shift in the direction of the wind.” A fitting title for a magnificent book. Containing many classics alongside modern releases, this curation is separated into sections on Musings, Youth, Family, Love, Imaginings, Nature, War and Endings. Complemented by Riddell’s exquisite illustrations, a selection of the best poets ever to have lived have their best works displayed in this anthology. A little Shakespeare, some heart-wrenching words from Emily Dickinson, and fantasy genius from Neil Gaiman make up some of my favourites. This book serves as a wonderful gateway to poetry of all kinds - strange and beautiful. Kingdomland - Rachael Allen “I map a constellation I am a cucumber made entirely of water” Weird, wacky and wonderful, Kingdomland is a poetry collection suffused with surreal images, frank confessions and nightmarish landscapes. The world Allen creates is distant, peculiar, yet recognisable; vivid stories of pet tarantulas and “opal glands” of pigs while battling the female experience and everyday griefs. Allen’s poems blend carefully to create a “Kingdomland” of ecstasy and horror, where all seems familiar, but changed - slightly out of reach. Content warnings: Blood, abortion

- Alice Shaw 45

Babel - R.F KUANG A fantastical twist on a depiction of colonial resistance in the 19th century, Babel has been one of the most thoughtprovoking and intellectually stimulating books I have read this year. Written by Cambridge graduate and #1 New York Times bestselling author Rebecca F.Kuang, this book will be of particular interest to those who are interested in History, Politics, English Literature, and Foreign Languages (both ancient and modern!) Something that piqued my interest in this book is the protagonist being a Chinese scholar, Robin, given the opportunity to study in England. Not only was it refreshing to see my own background being represented in Western media, but also as I progressed further through the novel, I found myself being able to resonate with Robin’s struggles with his identity and his allegiances (although his is a lot more extreme...) The novel accentuates the dominance of the British Empire in the 19th century through the depiction of immigrant scholars creating tools through language and translation, and exemplifies the internal conflict of these students by helping expand an empire which although nurtured them, also means betraying their motherland. The novel furthermore paints a dynamic illustration of resistance and revolutions against the all-powerful empire, proposing the question of whether powerful institutions can be changed from within, or does revolution always require violence.

- Joyce Duan

Some Holiday Reading A Poem for Every… Recently – in the pursuit of some Christmas shopping – I came across this series of poetry compilations. At first, I was attracted by the colourful and seasonal front cover, and quite intrigued to discover the range of poetry represented in the book. Compiled by Allie Esiri these include a full book for every season, and day and night of the year and feature a variety of poets from Shakespeare to Lewis Caroll, to Carol Ann Duffy. These make for a diverse, entertaining, (and very efficient!) Christmas gift, especially adaptable to sharing and discussion with friends and family, and is a great start for anyone beginning to read poetry. Sherlock Holmes (The Complete Adventures) Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s short stories have always seemed to me most suitable for the Christmas holidays. Whilst the stories are compelling with mysterious and intriguing plots, there is also a certain comfort in the similarity of the format and the concluding deconstructions of the crime. The brevity of these makes them a practical read whether staying at home or travelling this winter, but for longer or more leisurely reading, I recommend an edition with historical footnotes and detail, which often prove to be quite informative. For particularly festive moods the Blue Carbuncle ought not to be missed… Something longer… Winter can be the perfect time to start reading longer narratives that span across hundreds of pages, with a variety of characters, sub-plots and locations. Dickens or Tolstay are good places to start - you could even return from the holidays with the ability to casually mention having read the entirety of War and Peace… Additionally, Marcel Proust’s À la Recherche du Temps Perdu, extends in its entirety around 3000 pages and is a fascinating exploration of subconscious consciousness in the mind of a (semiautobiographical) first-person narrator. It is certainly a uniquely absorbing text, to pick up à vos heures perdues. If looking for something slightly shorter, or modern, (though it still is around 550 pages and from 1957) Pasternak’s Dr. Zhivago is a profoundly engaging novel with elements of epic, romance and poetry, and a vivid historical setting beginning in 1900 and spanning to WWII. The film, produced in 1965 by English film-director David Lean (and spanning for over 3 hours) though an admittedly simplified version of the novel is certainly worth watching – but only after having read the book first!

- Carole Tucker, ed. 47

Closing Notes As this issue draws to a close, I would like to take the opportunity to thank all the contributors to this term’s issue of Synthetic Violet. It is always a pleasure to discover a piece of written or artistic expression in one’s inbox amidst the flow of habitual non-committal communications and I am glad to be able to share this collection of endeavour, in the hope that it may bring some light and entertainment during the dark evening hours of Winter, or a moment of peace and calm amidst the bustle of celebrations and festivity, perhaps in tranquil solitude, or in the lively discussion of relatives and friends. Indeed, I find the idea of sharing creative endeavour particularly important. Whether this may include reading poetry aloud, discussing literary themes, debating over a writer’s or artist’s work, the social and cultural confluence of ideas has a tremendous potential for posterity. Certainly, the earliest epics such as the Iliad originated from collections of stories and verses passed down through an oral tradition. Furthermore, many well-known poets and writers shared their work among artistic circles, with critique and praise often leading to the creation of a wealth of written output. One such example would be the Querelle of the Ancients and Moderns taking place in the 17th century (interestingly it was the so-called ‘Anciens’ or ‘Classiques’ which gained the most posterity in the likes of Racine and Corneille). Even on a smaller scale the literary querelle sparked by Molière’s École des Femmes (1662) is in itself fascinating where literary critics and opponents ardently debated the play, which led to Molière’s own representation of the quarrel in La Critique des École des Femmes (1663). Additionally, one could cite a variety of literary circles which resulted in several great classics of literature and poetry from various relationships, from the literary salons to the Shelleys, and Bloomsbury set. Whilst the invention of writing and technology, may seem to have precipitated the extinction of such widespread sharing and discussion of literature, the rewards of literary conversation are of innumerable value. Indeed, when one begins to share in writing and reading, be it in conversation or in print, new perspectives are achieved, poetic images formed, and the height of inspiration is reached. I shall thus close this issue of Synthetic Violet in the hope that such sharing of creativity may endure both in the present and beyond. I wish you all a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

- Carole Tucker, ed. 48

Art

- Eugénie Tucker 49

Notice Synthetic Violet the Perse Literary and Cultural magazine will be accepting submissions for the Lent term issue throughout the term and winter holidays. Here is a reminder about the genres we accept (you may be published under a pen name or your own). • • • • •

verse (poetry of all kinds) fictional prose (short stories, creative writing etc.) essays on varied subjects - including all the humanities! book recommendations/reviews art (both for the covers and within the magazine)

Please email any contributions or queries to cmtucker@perse.co.uk.

Cover Artwork by Eugénie Tucker