the beginning of the end

Thoughts on third year. 

Who can believe it, eh? How quickly this has all disappeared.

Six months ago, I got on the train home, in state of quasi-evacuation, and then the weeks and months passed, and now we are here, in mid-September. I've even got a back to school playlist to mark the occasion. 

I feel distinctly mixed about it all. I can't contain my excitement at being back in my libraries and immersed in it all; at living with my best friends, working in cafes, running in the parks, just being away from home. Michaelmas' paper is sick, Autumn in Oxford is beautiful and my yellow bike is going to look iconic zipping around the streets. I cannot wait.

But I almost can't accept it's going to happen. Maybe it won't, who knows in this post-certainty world. But regardless, the prospect of it is idyllic.

And then, there's the apprehension. The hoped idyll that simply won't be fulfilled, because corona and necessary rules mean what feel like the best parts can't happen. Can't go to formals, can't have balls, can't even have face-to-face tutorials. Oh, and I can't cook for myself. Too often I think 'what's the point', and toy at the threads of rustication, suspension, a year out. I just can't shake this profound nostalgia of what was, and I know it won't be like that anymore. And it's like March's grief all over again. So that hurts, in a privileged sort of way.

And then, of course, there's the inevitable anxiety. Anxiety at exams and pressure. And at the end. That cruel creature that caused so much pain in 2017. But it sort of doesn't hurt as much this time. It feels as though there is a little more hope and prospect and opportunity once this is done, and maybe even some excitement (Berlin, please?!). But I also struggle to process that it will end. At the speed with which these three beautiful years have melted and slipped and are suddenly almost concluding. And then who am I? What does my identity consist of? Do I have to get a job? Can I not just read books forever?

And I just can't imagine my world not consisting of these people of whom I am in awe, who are so ridiculously intelligent and caring and driven it is hard to believe they are really real. I want them to be my world forever and to just stop time so I can drink up the hours with them. Really, I'd like to hold on to this eternally, and never let go.

So, for third year, I am feeling both hope and dread. So sad and so hopeful at the same time.

I know it will be hard and too many early mornings and late nights will be spent in the library (I've already had the necessary pre-warning) and in so many ways it will be different, and some of that I won't know until it happens. I refuse to let myself be consumed by the grief I did last time, and instead want to try so, so hard to breathe it in. Enjoy my window looking onto the quad, and the sandstone streets, and the coffees, and the cold mornings, and the laughs and the pubs, and even the hungover working. 

And I'll fuckin' stop with the photobooth pics when I really should be reading. 

Good vibes for back to school, y'all (and hoping beyond hope that a second lockdown isn't on its way!) <3

(pics are from insta: here, here and here)

the reads and the to-reads #2

I seem to have books everywhere: a permanent pile downstairs as remnants of days working, a tower next to my bed of 'to-reads', a shelf above my bed of my favourites, and a collection of history books to feign intellect. Despite not needing another for at least a year, I can't! stop! buying! them!

I've read a wonderful array of things this summer: it's been quite an inspiring few months, literature-wise and I have definitely explored things I wouldn't have otherwise. 

Here are some recs!

The Parisian Affair and Other Stories, Guy de Maupassant 

I have only read half of these, but as they are short stories I feel it is more justified to take a break halfway through. This is a collection of over thirty short-stories, with some just a couple of pages long. They are set in different areas and worlds of France, in the late nineteenth century. They are debauche and scandalous, and some are profanely ridiculous, but they are madly entertaining. Some of the comments he makes about women are so blatant they just make me laugh – how terrifying men used to find us. 

'Really strange, complex...unfathomable creatures, women', 'one of those treacherous looks that so often appear in women's eyes', you get the gist!

I'd highly recommend for a dip-in-and-dip-out book, with some astutely of-the-time comments and some crude humour, alongside a beautiful translation. 'A Parisian Affair', 'Monsieur Jocaste', 'Two Friends' and 'Regret' are some favourites. 

Rainbow Milk

As a debut, this novel was, for me, groundbreaking. I know some people found it a little too explicit, and perhaps buying too overtly into gay stereotypes, but I found it's representation and commentary madly eye opening. It's an intertwining of stories of the Windrush generation, alongside the life of a gay, black Jehovah Witness. The two narratives seem entirely unrelated, until the very end, but it concludes in almost perfect harmony. I found it visceral and raw and very harrowing, but also warm and loving. It made me think a lot about the intersectionality of identity, and as a book that breaks all the conventions, I thought it was just wonderful. 

It's not about the Burqa 

Another recommended reading of the reading group I mentioned in this post. My perception of this book was a little tainted by a conversation I'd had with a friend who said it was rather repetitive and superficial. I can see what she means by this, but for a white-woman entry into the feminism of Muslim women and the intersection between Islam and feminist theory, I thought it was excellent. It's main premise is to reclaim the voice of Muslim women on their identities as feminists, and explain what it means to them, through a collection of essays. The difference it highlights between religion and culture is, I believe, a pretty essential thing to understand, and perhaps offers a starting point for white women questioning the relationship between Islam and feminism. I do agree it is perhaps a little surface-level and repeats its fundamental point, but that I believe is not a bad thing, and maybe White Feminists will finally begin to listen. 

Reading Lolita in Tehran 

This was a slow and long read for me, but enjoyable and eye opening nonetheless. A memoir by Azar Nafisi, it explores life under the Iranian Revolution, as a woman, an academic and a reader. It taught me a lot about Iran that I didn't know, and shocked me at so many points. I adored her analysis of the different texts read in the subversive book group, and I often got lost in the novel itself, rather than her description. Whilst it did seem to take me far longer than most other books to get through, it was worth it as some of her lyricism is just beautiful, and the theme so important. 

So there are a few, perhaps more unusual, suggestions. I've also read The Family Upstairs (a little predictable but very quick paced), Exciting Times, and Women Don't Owe You Pretty – all of them good, but maybe ones you've heard of before. 

In terms of to-reads, I've got a considerable pile to work my way through before October. They include a Virginia Woolf 'Flush', a retelling of a Greek myth ('Thousand Ships', the David Nicholls I've been pining after ('Sweet Sorrow') and one set in the Qing dynasty to ease me back into history. 

What have you all been reading recently?