Diary of an English student

In this day and age, it seems it is increasingly difficult to get published. It's not the romanticised ideal movies and books make it out to be. There's such a lot of drivel out there, it does make one wonder who it actually is making these decisions, and what they were taking when they did so.

Perhaps this is why a blog is a wonderful thing.

I can tell many, many people, many of whom (or indeed, most of whom) I will never meet, about anything I choose. Me, my family and friends, my life - or I can do something a little different, from time to time. Include a short story, or a poem. I came across a notebook which I had filled with poetry not long ago - there were things in there that I didn't even remember writing, and reading them again, I was so pleased I'd found them. I'm still not quite at the stage where I'm ready to show them to the world yet - I know they need work, and one day I'll go back and sort them out. But just knowing I've got a cache of writings hidden away makes me feel a little reassured. Like if everything were to go to pot, if the worst were to happen, or whatever, I would have left something that was entirely me, my own, not influenced by anyone else.

This all seems very deep, you may be thinking. Well, I guess I'm feeling pretty deep at the moment as I just watched the BBC's adaptation of the diary of Anne Frank. I cried at the end. Who wouldn't? But the point is that she was real, she was normal, she was like me in a lot of ways. Obviously we differ on some key points. But she is such a point of identification; her diary has become so important to Western culture and to the understanding of the lives of those who were persecuted. It's a snapshot, not only of war, but of childhood and adolescence. It's a testament to the power of the written word.

Part of what makes it so remarkable is her constant self-criticism and doubt. No author could have planned more dramatic irony. It verges on the sickening in its cheery underestimation of its potential. Readers drawn into the story are always surprised at the end when it suddenly stops; when there is no obvious conclusion. Some would say that is what lends it its power. But I like to think that Anne's writing would have been special even had she survived. And I think that also makes the fact that she didn't more poignant.

If I leave half such a testament behind, I'll be happy.

You didn't really expect me to write between Christmas and New Year, did you? More fool you if you did. Honestly.

It's getting to that stage in the holiday where being at home is now dull. I know I would be working harder, being more productive, and generally moping less if I were in Oxford right now. But I am not. I am in the Other Place (as Andrew refers to it) and, while interesting things are occurring, I am desperate to return. Exercise, both mental and physical, is sorely lacking. My brain yearns for stimulating conversation over late-night cups of tea, followed by inordinate amounts of Greek, followed by the culmination of an essay crisis into a readable work on some great Classical piece of literature. I want to be on the river; I want to be eating in hall; I want to gossip and discuss matters of theology with Dan and Andrew.

I'm very needy, it seems. But I don't think I'm asking that much.. am I?

You may be interested in how I spent my New Year. I shall say merely that it was the most fun I have ever had at New Year, with the most people my own age and the most freedom to do what we liked, when we wanted to. It was pretty damn awesome, in short.

Some New Years resolutions:

1) to get over thinking about what I can't have
2) to not begrudge others the right to relationships, just because I am so rubbish at them

and one that I think I'll actually achieve, so that when I look back on this blog I won't think 2009 will have been a total failure:
3) to get better at rowing

Happy New Year, all