Where will you be in ten years?
The hands of the clock drag you from one moment to the next.
Are things going to get better? Are things going to get worse?
Time looks out and demands an answer.
But you don’t know what to say.
Sometimes, it feels like the world is going to end. It feels like it’s all too much, and there’s nothing you can do. But then, there’s this moment, this moment when you see your friends in a show that they’ve been working on for so long. The show finishes, and you see them up on stage with a look of supreme joy and accomplishment. And when you see that – anytime something like that happens – you can’t help but feel like things are going to get better.
And then, there’s this moment when you go to the endpoint and see someone you love cross the finish line minutes before the cutoff. They collapse into their teammate’s arms in tears of joy and disbelief and exhaustion. And when you see that, and when you start to feel that warmth which spreads from your chest to your entire body, and when your jaw starts to hurt a little from smiling and your hands start to ache from clapping – anytime something like that happens – you can’t help but feel like things are going to get better.
But get better for how long?
One day, you’re not going to wake up. One day, you will be bones rotting under the soil or ashes turning in the wind. One day, you simply won’t be here. But you still will have been here. So, the question becomes, did the time you spent up until the day that you died, did it mean anything at all? You can hope that your life amounts to something. That you being here somehow made the world a better place.
But hope is a terrible, empty thing.
There is no security in hope. Hope doesn’t guarantee that you’ll be able to buy a house or find the time to tell someone that you love them.
‘I hope that I’ll be happy in 10 years.’
‘I hope that they know how much they mean to me.’
‘I hope that it’ll all be okay.’
Hope is never enough, but perhaps it’s a start.
What would the opposite of hope be? Would it be despair? No doubt despair is horrible, but it’s not empty. To despair is to know that all is lost, while to hope is only to wish that nothing is. Regret? Perhaps regret finds itself more at home with hope than despair does. After all, both deal in imagined pasts or futures.
‘I regret what I said. I regret what I said, but I can’t help but hope they know I didn’t mean it.’
Could you have done anything differently, or in every life are you cursed to walk the same streets and recite the same speeches and cry the same tears and throw up in the same bathrooms and love the same people?
Hope is always the hope that something does or doesn’t happen or has or hasn’t happened. In other words, hope is only hope because it keeps the company of uncertainty. In the instance of despair, hope either vanishes or changes. It vanishes because it has been killed, or it changes because despair has given birth to a new hope, a hope that it was all a dream, or that things are going to be okay, or that things are going to get better. We are held over the abyss on a tightrope stretched between past and future, in a moment marked present, with very limited knowledge of both what lies ahead and what lies behind. Hope is perhaps the only thing that allows us to keep our balance.
To give up on hope is to give up on life itself. Hope is always a wish for things to be better. For the world to be a kinder place, for smiles to be shared and laughter to be heard louder and more often. We can never be entirely sure of the future, of what lies ahead. But we can always hope that what lies ahead will be better than what we have now.
In ten years, I hope that I’ll be happy. I hope that my loved ones will be happy. I hope that the world will be a better place.
On the night of the 1st of September, a category 2 cyclone hit Melbourne. I was alone in my parent’s house, lying high and awake in my childhood bed. Checking my notes app the next day, I noticed that I’d written something.
“It’s two forty-five in the morning. I’m alone in my childhood home, and I’m a little scared.”
I used to love storms. I still do, at least on an intellectual level. There’s something empowering about the natural world, and the quiet strength of our buildings withstanding a battering. But it’s been three years since I was in Melbourne for a proper storm, and I’m not used to them anymore. Melbourne isn’t entirely home anymore.
The storm, and my reaction to it, cemented a realisation that’s been dawning on me for some time; I’m getting older. I’m not the same Henry as I was in first year. When I first moved to Canberra, I was a fresh-faced (albeit hirsute) eighteen-year-old. There were endless streams of new people to meet, and I had complete freedom for the first time in my life. As these years went on, Canberra became home. Daley Road became home. I don’t know when Canberra became home, though I know that it is. But now, I’m about to turn twenty-one, and I’m preparing to leave this leafy home. Moving out of Daley Road feels like I’m moving into a new phase. I’m on the precipice of adulthood, and I’d be lying if that wasn’t daunting.
Canberra is a transitory place. Most of us never plan to stay here forever, though many of us will. As students in Canberra, we live a quasi-nomadic life. Our friends are from all over, and there’s endless trips to someone’s hometown that can be made. Since moving to Canberra, I’ve spent more time in Sydney than I ever thought I would. I’ve become familiar with a smorgasbord of small towns —places I didn’t even know existed when I decided to leave Melbourne.
Just like Canberra, being college-age is transitory. For the past three years, my identity has been in constant flux. Every possible experience is handed to you on a platter. I’ve attended talks at embassies immediately after coordinating some of the Engineering School’s brightest minds to make a bong. That’s the beauty of early adulthood. It’s a period of constant discovery. Of constant change, excitement, and experimentation. There’s a reason you don’t see many 40 year olds packing into the forests near Pialligo for a doof. After a while, the chaos becomes disorienting. I’m aware it’s bizarre that I’m writing this sentence but nevertheless, I’m getting old.
Adulthood excites me. A while back, I had a conversation with one of my best friends. Being from Melbourne, we’re both rarities in our Sydneysider friendship group. Driving along Hoddle Street in Melbourne, on our way to a day of unnecessarily expensive sandwiches and thrifting in Fitzroy, he asked me whether I’d rather get older or get younger and redo my childhood. I generally avoid existential crises before lunchtime, but this dilemma gripped me.
I didn’t have a good answer at the time, but I can now confidently say that adulthood excites me more than youth. Stability is more thrilling to me than chaos. I think that makes me boring and I think that’s what scares me the most. I was asked once if I’d prefer to be happy or interesting. At the time I said interesting. But I can’t stand by that answer anymore. I would rather be happy and simple.
The tragedy of youth is that it ends. We can only be interesting for so long, at some point, normalcy comes knocking. What is daunting to me now is that I know I’ll open the door. As I attend my last college events, as I go to house inspections and fill out rental applications, as I apply for APS and paralegal jobs, as I leave hospo behind, I am walking down the corridor. I don’t know if I’m ready to open the door, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll have to turn the knob anyway.
Comments Off on 2024 Book Releases to Watch Out For
The beginning of a new academic year calls for fresh distractions, and I come fully equipped to help you drain your wallets and your study time. Even better, you can tell yourself you’re wasting neither; reading is good for you, it makes you smart. You might as well be studying for your actual degree. Girl maths is calculating how many pretty hardcover novels you could buy with the money you saved by pirating your textbooks online (for legal purposes, this is a joke).
Full disclosure, this list does not offer very much in the way of nonfiction, aside from a few little numbers I especially liked the look of, which I’ve put in their own category. Sorry to the non-fiction buffs, but also not really.
General Fiction:
The Mother of All Things by Alexis Landau
(Releases May 7)
This one is for all my dark academia girlies. Think The Secret History but more human, and with a healthy dose of female rage.
Ava Zaretsky is a wife, mother, and art history professor. Following her husband to a film shoot in Bulgaria one summer, she is ‘swept up into a circle of women who reenact ancient Greco-Roman mystery rites of initiation, bringing her research to life and illuminating the story of a 5th-century-BC mother-daughter pair whose sense of female loyalty to each other and connection to the divine feminine guides Ava in her exploration of the eternal stages of womanhood.’
Read the full synopsis (and preorder, if you like) here.
See also:
Table for Two by Amor Towles (releases April 2)
From the bestselling author of A Gentleman in Moscow, The Lincoln Highway, and Rules of Civility comes a collection of six short stories set in turn-of-the-(twenty-first)-century New York City and a novella set in Hollywood’s Golden Age. Fans may recognise some characters from Rules of Civility.
What I Would Do to You by Georgia Harper (releases March 26)
A speculative fiction which places the reader in a near-future Australia, where the death penalty is legalised—but the family of the victim must carry it out themselves.
Fantasy/Science Fiction:
The Atlas Complex by Olivie Blake (The Atlas Six #3)
(Released January 9)
Is it the year for dark academia, or are publishers milking this trend a little bit? Here’s another one which will be a favourite with the dark academics among us.
That was cynical of me—when they don’t feel formulaic, tropey, and artificial (read: exclusively written to test their luck on BookTok), the dark academia branding can work well. This series seems to resonate with a very wide audience, so I’m sure we can expect good things.
The final instalment in the Atlas Six trilogy which more or less pioneered the BookTok cult of dark academia, The Atlas Complex is ‘a race to survive as the Society recruits are faced with the question of what they’re willing to betray for limitless power—and who will be destroyed along the way.’
More info here.
See also:
House of Flame and Shadow by Sarah J. Maas (released January 30)
I’m personally an SJM hater, but as that is a controversial opinion I’ll mention that House of Flame and Shadow came out last month. It’s the third instalment in the Crescent City series, and the Google animation was a jump-scare when I was researching for this article. As one of my friends said, Oh God, she got to the tech bros.
Faebound by Saara El-Arifi (released January 23)
Elves, fairies, high stakes and romance providing all the escapist vibes for your Semester 1.
Tales of the Celestial Kingdom by Sue Lynn Tan (released February 6)
An illustrated collection of short stories set in the world of fantasy romance duology Daughter of the Moon Goddess and Heart of the Sun Warrior, inspired by Chinese legend.
Historical Fiction:
All We Were Promised by Ashton Lattimore
(Releases April 4)
‘A housemaid with a dangerous family secret conspires with a wealthy young abolitionist to help an enslaved girl escape, in volatile pre-Civil War Philadelphia.’
Aside from a gorgeous cover, All We Were Promised proffers commentary on racial injustice, Western slavery, class divides, and female friendship. We follow three young Black women in 1937 Philadelphia fighting for freedom, inspired by the real-life Philadelphia Female Anti-Slavery Society and the Philadelphia abolitionist movements during the early 19th century.
I expect this one will be a brilliant debut from Ashton Lattimore, award-winning journalist and former lawyer.
More info here.
See also:
The Familiar by Leigh Bardugo (Releases April 9)
The author of Shadow and Bone, Six of Crows, and Ninth House delves into the world of adult historical fantasy, set in the Spanish Golden Age.
Literary Fiction:
Hagstone by Sinéad Gleeson
(Releases April 11)
Recent years have seen some brilliant literary voices coming out of Ireland—I’m thinking of Sally Rooney, John Boyne, Maggie O’Farrell, among others—so I have high hopes for Sinéad Gleeson’s debut Hagstone.
Drawing on myth and folklore, Hagstone places our protagonist Nell on an isolated island, ‘the source of inspiration for her art, rooted in landscape…and the feminine.’ The island is inhabited by a commune of women who travel from all over the world seeking its refuge. Described as ‘beautifully written, prescient and eerily haunting,’ I think this one will be gorgeous.
More info here.
See also:
Until August by Gabriel García Márquez (releases March 12)
This one is super exciting—a lost novel by the Nobel Prize-winning author of One Hundred Years of Solitude and Love in the Time of Cholera, to be published with the permission of his two sons. Sure to be an instant modern classic.
Anita de Monte Laughs Last by Xochitl Gonzalez (releases March 5)
‘A mesmerising novel about a first-generation Ivy League student who uncovers the genius work of a female artist decades after her suspicious death.’ (Macmillan)
Whale Fall by Elizabeth O’Connor (releases April 25)
Set on a remote Welsh island, this one is a study of ‘loss, isolation, folklore, and the joy and dissonance of finding oneself by exploring life outside one’s community.’ (Penguin Random House)
Nonfiction: A Novel by Julie Myerson (released January 2)
I want to read this based on the title alone. Nonfiction dissects the relationship between a mother and her child. We look at motherhood, addiction, and the act of writing.
Crime & Thriller:
Anna O by Matthew Blake
(Released January 31)
Predictably and unsurprisingly, I work at a little independent bookshop in Kingston, which is in part how I’ve devised this list. Since its release at the end of January, Anna O has been selling well. According to our customer base, at least, it probably isn’t quite the ‘instant global phenomenon’ HarperCollins eagerly declares it to be, but it’s definitely getting some solid attention.
Anna O is an ‘ingenious’ (The Times) psychological thriller interested in the human mind and its subconscious. Anna O, suspected of the murder of her two best friends, has been in a deep sleep for four years. Forensic psychologist Doctor Benedict Prince must find a way to wake her, and in the process any information about what happened the night of the murders.
‘As he begins Anna O’s treatment – studying his patient’s dreams, combing her memories, visiting the site where the horrors played out – he pulls on the thread of a much deeper, darker mystery. Awakening Anna O isn’t the end of the story, it’s just the beginning.’
More info here.
See also:
Butter by Asako Yuzuki (releases March 6)
I believe Butter has met with success overseas, and is being published for the first time in Australia. We’re getting so much fantastic Japanese literature, which I’m loving (Japan and Ireland absolutely killing the game). Inspired by a real case, Butter is ‘a vivid, unsettling exploration of misogyny, obsession, romance and the transgressive pleasures of food in Japan.’ (HarperCollins)
James by Percival Everett (releases March 19)
A ‘harrowing and fiercely funny’ (Penguin) retelling of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, from the perspective of the enslaved Jim.
Romance:
Funny Story by Emily Henry
(Releases April 23)
I think Emily Henry (author of Beach Read, Book Lovers, and You and Me on Vacation among other titles) could quite reasonably be called the mother of BookTok romance. Maybe I should confess that I haven’t actually read any of her novels yet, simply because romance isn’t a genre that I tend to gravitate towards, but her readership is so large and so devoted that it’s pretty clear Funny Story will be big this year.
There is absolutely something to be said for the importance of the romance genre, and the questionable foundations on which we often dismiss it as unimportant or holding less literary value. Romance as a genre is often written by women, typically for women, centring female characters. Lately I’ve been interested in the way we determine our hierarchies of artistic value, and the potential sociocultural issues underlying the way we perceive literature and its importance. Emily Henry herself did an interview with The Age last year which I thoroughly enjoyed—if you’d like to give it a read, here’s a link.
But I digress. Funny Story sets our heroine Daphne in a small town, ‘propositioning [her ex’s fiancé’s ex, Miles] to move in. As roommates of course. A temporary solution until she gets a new job literally anywhere else.’ The ‘awkward exes of exes-to-friends-to-lovers’ trope is a new one for sure, but I have no doubt all the romance lovers will eat it up.
More info here.
See also:
Fangirl Down by Tessa Bailey (released February 13)
The bestselling author of It Happened One Summer is jumping on the sports romance trend, but the love interest ‘was once golf’s hottest rising star’ (HarperCollins, italics added by me for emphasis). A romance novel where our protagonist is the hardcore fangirl of a ‘gorgeous, grumpy golfer’ sounds insane, and if I end up reading it you can be so sure of a review. (If not, someone else read it and tell me how it is.)
Token Non-Fiction:
Outspoken by Dr Sima Samar
(Releases March 6)
This list has been almost entirely composed of fiction (sorry, not sorry), and while there were several non-fiction titles I wanted to include, for the sake of keeping this readable and a not-absurd length we’ll stick with this super important memoir which I’m hoping to read when I can get my hands on it.
‘The impassioned memoir of Afghanistan’s Sima Samar: medical doctor, public official, founder of schools and hospitals, thorn in the side of the Taliban, nominee for the Nobel Peace Prize, and lifelong advocate for girls and women.’
Outspoken is relevant and necessary; it recounts how Simar ‘[became] a revolutionary,’ single-handedly providing medical aid to remote areas and fighting tirelessly for the rights of Afghan women, and ‘all the citizens of her country.’ Important reading for our 2024.
More info here.
See also:
The House of Hidden Meanings by RuPaul (releases March 6)
‘From international drag superstar and pop culture icon RuPaul, comes his most revealing and personal work to date—a brutally honest, surprisingly poignant, and deeply intimate memoir of growing up Black, poor, and queer in a broken home to discovering the power of performance, found family, and self-acceptance.’ (HarperCollins)
Who’s Afraid of Gender? by Judith Butler (releases March 19)
Who’s Afraid of Gender? studies the relationship between authoritarian movements and gender as a concept, and the fearmongering surrounding particularly non-binary and trans people promoted by certain ‘anti-gender ideology movements’. ‘From a global icon, a bold, essential account of how a fear of gender is fueling reactionary politics around the world.’ (Macmillan)
Rebel Rising by Rebel Wilson (releases April 3)
A memoir from Rebel Wilson is so certain to be thoroughly iconic. Recalling her rise to fame with all the insane anecdotes our little hearts could desire, you just know this one will go crazy.
That’s all I’ve got for you today, but I always have one eye on the upcoming releases throughout the year, so expect a part two somewhere in your (relatively) near future.
Until next time!
Comments Off on Review: How to Date Men When You Hate Men
Fair warning: if you’ve come here in search of some profound insight into the matters of the heart, I apologise. I’m just an 18-year-old girl with uncommendable dating experience, who is also severely prone to falling into a pit of crippling anxiety at the mere sight of a text from a guy (it takes me five hours and a solid brainstorming session with three other friends to respond to a simple “Hey” followed by a series of sleepless nights). So, for the sake of honesty, I’ll admit I don’t know shit.
Perhaps now you can also see how a ‘self-help’ book called How To Date Men When You Hate Men would entice someone like me. To be clear, neither I nor the author hate men, we just hate the troubles we’ve to endure to date them and the patriarchal bit of it all.
For a long time, it was a running joke in my friend group that this book held the key to fixing our love lives. Armed with foolproof strategies to sail through the treacherous waters of dating a guy, we’d be unstoppable! So here I was, embarking on this transcendental journey, flipping through the pages of the book like a madwoman and hoping to finally learn the art of dating men just in time for Valentine’s Day. No more being lonely and miserable, I had declared!
By the first chapter, bitter disappointment had settled in. I had fallen prey to clickbait. The book was (unfortunately) neither misandrist propaganda nor, as the author herself admits, a proper “how to” book.
It hypes you up in the beginning, and you, naïve little you, are convinced that you’re about to read something so earth-shatteringly revolutionary that you will single-handedly end patriarchy and the systemic sexism prevalent in our society. But you’ll soon realise this is just a patronising version of your girls’ group chat.
‘It’s not that there are “good men” versus “bad men” (though there are some obvious monsters): all men have received this coding. They aren’t born evil, they’re born into an evil system! It just didn’t sound as catchy to name the book How to Date Men When They Are Born into and Brainwashed by an Evil System That Mightily Oppresses Women.’
The author, Blythe Roberson, is an American comedian and humour writer, who has previously written for publications like The New Yorker and The Onion. As expected, you can sense the immaculate sarcasm and wit right off the bat. Unexpectedly, though, it quickly falls flat.
Throughout the book, Roberson makes various attempts to put modern dating problems in a comedic and engaging light. Sadly she misses the mark almost every single time. Roberson fills the book with quirky little displays of her hilarity, but because the book is so inconclusive everything she writes becomes almost irrelevant due to the lack of direction. The snarky comments that probably would’ve gotten her a good laugh in a different format soon turn annoying (looking at the 125, 689, 871 Trump jokes).
This humour severely lacks purpose. Roberson describes the book as ‘made up of so many opinions all clumped together that they just might have congealed into some sort of worldview’, taking a step further to boldly call it a ‘comedy philosophy book’. I like to call it the ‘Roberson’s Attempt at Turning Her Journal Therapy Journey Commercial’ book. It truly does seem like she was advised by her therapist to try to pen down her feelings, and she thought, well, why not turn this into a book and make some money out of it?
Her personal reflections and all the bottled-up frustration she harbours towards dating finally find the light of day in these pages. She talks so extensively about patriarchy and its impact on modern dating that you wonder if you really are about to read a social philosophy book, but she doesn’t explore this problem with any depth or nuance and you’re just left pondering. The book ends up being a collection of Roberson’s dating expeditions. So, while I yearn to learn more about the nitty gritties of Roberson’s ‘intersectional-socialist-matriarchal revolution’, I find myself learning the superficialities of Roberson’s date with some film student named Luke instead.
While the first half of the book might irk you, to give Roberson due credit, the second half does get better.
‘And so: you, right now, are a full tree. You don’t need to be in love to count as a human. Look—you already ARE a human, existing!’
Even though it’s cliché big sister advice and I know at this point we’re all tired of listening to the ‘you can only be loved if you love yourself first’ crap, it is undeniably true, and Roberson’s take on it is, dare I say, quite refreshing! She preaches against overthinking by emphasising that ultimately people will always do what their heart desires and so, if they are talking to you, it is because they want to! Probably nothing you haven’t heard before, but it’s the unwavering conviction with which Roberson almost commands the reader to stop over-analysing every little thing that almost has me convinced every guy is in love with me.
Okay, I don’t actually hate How To Date Men When You Hate Men. I know by now I might’ve convinced you otherwise, but genuinely, my only qualm with this book is that it shouldn’t have been a book. The way Roberson describes her dating mishaps and all the valuable lessons she’s gleaned from dating guys all these years make for solid entertainment. Not for a book. But, perhaps, as the set for her Netflix special. Oh, what wasted potential the book has. It’s relatable and charming, with seamlessly woven humour, while also targeting the idiosyncrasies of modern society. It could have been a 10/10 comedy show.
For me, the true measure of a book lies in the emotion it evokes. Often, over time, plots and character arcs get buried and decay with memory, but the emotions etched in the heart stand the test of time. The brain forgets, but the heart remembers. And while this book did have moments of Roberson’s glittering wit, it failed to leave an imprint. All I’d remember five years later would be the riveting title.
So, final remarks. Firstly, nobody really knows what love is. Some days it’s peeling an orange, while other days even taking a bullet might not be enough. All we know is that love is cataclysmic in the most beautiful ways and sadly, no book will ever have the answer to all your questions. You just have to wing it, as frightening as that might be.
Secondly, don’t read this book. You probably won’t read it til the end (unless you’ve thought it’d be cool to review it for Valentine’s). I recommend spending that time hating some other aspect of your life.
Lastly, if you do plan on spending Valentine’s alone, all sad and pathetic (like me), remember that it’s just a day. A Wednesday too, literally nothing special. The human experience will have us all being melancholic the rest of the year, even those cringy people in love (I’m just jealous). Go get yourself an ice cream and be a hater for a day.
Comments Off on ANU Arts Revue: Sending Brian Back to Kansas
Arts Revue opens with a joke. Not a skit, a single joke. The keyboard player gets up, walks to centre stage, and announces that he’s going to tell a joke that’s ‘okay to say’, because he heard it on the radio.
“How does a pornstar get paid?
Income.”
(Get it, because it sounds like in-cum?)
It wasn’t a bad joke – it was fine, it got a laugh – but we were left confused. Who was this guy, who didn’t appear in a single skit after his one joke? Why was this the opener? Were they stalling while they sorted out technical issues? Did he just really want to be a part of it, while also playing his keyboard?
Arts Revue left all of these questions unanswered, but it gave us a great show to make up for it. The just-fine pornstar joke is thankfully followed by an excellent ‘Life is a Highway’ parody, ‘Life is a Parkes Way’, full of jokes about the perils of driving in Canberra. This was the first of many solid parodies. A special shoutout to ‘Love is an Open Door/There’s Vomit on the Floor’, an ode to a scenario many a Senior Resident has faced on a Thursday night, and a long but funny and oddly heartwarming skit where the Phantom of the Opera joins the Backstreet Boys. Though these were all good, the highlight had to be the number about society keeping Miss Piggy and Kermit apart. The costuming – a frog suit, a dress and a cheap wig – was exactly what you’d expect, and Georgia Mcculloch’s performance as Kermit was especially moving. From Kermit to Brian Schmidt’s American accent to the practised cadence of a newsreader, Mcculloch’s unique talent for impressions – ie. ‘doing funny voices’ – meant she never once broke character.
If a powerful, poignant anthem about the enduring power of frog-pig sex doesn’t sound like your kind of thing, then Arts Revue provided plenty of ANU-related comedy for the average revue enjoyer. A breakup between ANU and Schmidt, where his Nobel Prize is the other woman, captured the heartbreak of Schmidt’s departure. Even the Devil himself, accompanied by a grovelling minion he had an insane amount of sexual tension with, visited to announce his plans for a new and improved ANU. These ranged from not-that-bad-maybe-an-improvement-actually (sinking Wamburun into the depths of Hell) to downright evil (quadruple-factor authentication for every sign-on).
Not all of the skits were this good. A few were just drawn-out puns. A woman goes to the doctor about a lump on her arm; it’s Taylor Cyst, a cyst that plays Taylor Swift songs. Bird watchers make jokes about seeing nice pairs of tits. The latter does get points for walking right up to my co-writer and implying they had thrush, though. Excellent audience participation, almost as good as the bit where they turned off all the lights and ran a guided meditation, lulling us all into a false sense of security so that they could steal our belongings. Thankfully everything was returned after the show – no need to press charges.
Charlie Joyce Thompson deserves a special mention for bringing an extra laugh to every skit he starred in. His delivery, accents, acting and improv were fantastic and he had us keeling over, whether he was playing Miss Piggy or a South African High Court judge.
We saw Arts Revue on the opening night, so we were ready to forgive any tech issues. Which is good, because there were a fair few of them: lights going up randomly during scenes that were supposed to be dark (at least we think so), Taylor Swift playing during the devil’s speech and the wrong Powerpoint playing during a student presentation skit – somehow, this last one was still kind of funny.
Nonetheless, Arts Revue proved a funny, well-coordinated, well-acted performance. Its strengths were its actors and its parodies and musical numbers, each one somehow better than the last. It ended with a bang: a parody of ‘I’m Just Ken’ to the tune of “I’m Just Brian” and mashed up with even more Backstreet Boys. A fantastic way to the end night, and a charming and funny end to the revue season.
Comments Off on Review – The Bookbinder of Jericho by Pip Williams
The unread piles of books beginning to crowd my little B&G room have a peculiar habit of growing faster than I can explain away, but in spite of my love of stories, there are very few authors whose books I will always, without fail, scramble to get hold of. When I do, I will steal away with them, fingers crossed for upcoming grey skies and rain, the kettle boiling, Hozier/Lorde/Bon Iver (no, I won’t be taking criticisms on my obnoxious music tastes) playing, and curl up to try and squeeze myself between the letters, to temporarily live inside the pages.
One such author is Pip Williams, the writer behind 2021 multi-award-winning debut The Dictionary of Lost Words and, more recently, The Bookbinder of Jericho. And while I didn’t find it quite as beautifully executed as Dictionary, Bookbinder didn’t disappoint.
I was first made aware of the novel late last year, when Williams’ publisher Affirm Press posted a cover reveal on their Instagram. I was ecstatic, then promptly let it fall to the back of my mind. In March of 2023, I was vaguely aware of its finally landing on shelves, but even the new books of one’s much-beloved storytellers may be pushed aside by the chaos, the newness of things when one moves to a far-off city for university. (“Far-off” sounds like something the narrator of a fairy tale might say, so I’m happy applying it here as someone from Newcastle, New South Wales, exactly four and a half hours’ drive away.)
It wasn’t until the event Williams hosted in partnership with the Canberra Times and the ANU, held in the Kambri Cultural Centre on campus, that I recalled my excitement and determined to have it in my hands as soon as possible. I might note that this resolution was conditional: my first priority was to avoid paying the $32.99 it was being sold for at the event. I was fairly confident I could persuade Affirm to send me a copy in exchange for a review as I had so thoroughly enjoyed Dictionary, which they kindly did. (Thanks besties.) I left the lecture theatre more eager to read than I had been in a long while.
I remember feeling that The Dictionary of Lost Words embodied everything I love about words and literature. Bookbinder carries a lot of the same themes (and largely shares the context and setting, with a few familiar characters). Set against the atmospheric backdrop of Oxford University, The Bookbinder of Jericho explores the life, relationships, and ambitions of a woman in early 20th century England. Throughout the novel, Williams navigates these experiences through the lenses of literature, war, social class, and gender. We follow young, “pretty Peggy Jones,” a bindery-girl at Oxford University Press, whose job is to “bind the books, not read them,” but who longs to study instead.
Bookbinder’s great strength is its characters, who are already complex when we meet them, and whose development throughout the novel is seamless. Here, I think it did a better job than Dictionary, which felt marginally more inclined towards aestheticism than fleshed-out characters and their relationships. I also loved the relatively slow but realistic and still compelling plot, which is becoming characteristic of Williams’ writing—the dream for people like me, who are always in it for the vibe of the thing.
I think the novel left something to be desired in the writing, though. The beautiful prose was what I found most striking about Dictionary, but unfortunately I wasn’t especially impressed by the writing in Bookbinder. There is every possibility that my tastes have just changed since reading the former, but I sense an inkling of a shift in William’s style from the first book to the second, and that maybe something of the earlier eloquence was lost in favour of wider appeal. Much of the criticism Dictionary received was relating to what (I feel) may simply have been its literary style. Historical fiction doesn’t typically lean this way, but Williams’ writing is vaguely reminiscent of emerging literary voices in the vein of R.F. Kuang and Sally Rooney. I suspect that, understandably, there may have been expectations for the style which were not met, which might have put some readers off. Something about the style of Bookbinder felt more in line with its genre, but less in the distinctive voice of Pip Williams. I wonder if this was in response to some of the negative feedback on Dictionary. I also would like to note, however, that I have read very legitimate grievances, and if this book wasn’t for you, that’s so valid. Take my thoughts with a grain of salt; I’m only one person, one perspective. I have no authority whatsoever on the subject—I just talk with wildly unearned confidence.
I liked some of what Williams had to say about women’s suffrage, a topic she engages with a lot throughout the novel—super appropriate, of course, for the mid-WWII period. Her main idea is the fact that the vote did not extend to all women—only those in possession of land or a degree (which Oxford wouldn’t provide to women, even on the completion of a “degree course”)—excluding the vast majority. However, in only touching on land ownership and education, Bookbinder really only delves into class, and to me it felt like there was a gap left to be filled—the glaring whiteness of the early women’s suffrage movement, and the exclusion of women of colour in a context where it was made near impossible for women of colour to obtain either land or a degree. In a 2018 article for UK organisation Voting Counts, Natalie Leal writes, “While there was no direct, obvious discrimination based on race written into the legislation, implicit structural discrimination was still writ large, as so often happens race and class intersected.”
There is a surprising lack of conversation regarding this in relation to her books, possibly due to their both being fairly new. I did some digging to see if anyone else had reached a similar conclusion to me, and eventually stumbled upon a blog post which touched on the space for racial discourse in The Dictionary of Lost Words, which I found resonated with what may be considered the gap in Bookbinder.
Jenny A. at Righter of Words takes a brief but thought-provoking linguistic approach, which I would have loved to read more of. Dictionary has a particular interest in the way that certain kinds of words go ignored in particular circles (notably academic and literary). The protagonist Esme is raised in an Oxford ‘scriptorium,’ where words are collected and compiled—and routinely excluded—for each edition of the Oxford English Dictionary. Esme begins to collate her own volume of omitted ‘women’s words’ which are overlooked—usually for vulgarity or being ‘lesser than’: they are “by women, about women, and for women” . Dictionary is interested in the words that are left out of a book which, having historically been put together chiefly by white men, is fundamentally biased, and asks whether that truly makes them any less credible or valuable.
The author notes that Dictionary is “focused…on early feminism in predominantly white circles,” but wonders about vernacular which is typically used within the circles of particular racial minorities, and is often looked down upon. They mention AAVE (African-American Vernacular English) as a well-known example, and consider it a “missed opportunity.” I agree; some ideas about the way that all women’s words (including and perhaps especially women of colour) have been excluded could have made for such a brilliant contribution to the plot.
Slightly more recent ideas about intersectional feminism didn’t quite reach these books, and I do think so much depth could have been added with a deeper dive into the historical exclusion of all women within academia, suffrage, and linguistics. Of course, however, not all books need to cover all issues, and Dictionary and Bookbinder absolutely pose valuable questions about class and gender. I thoroughly enjoyed both, and maintain that both are valuable contributions to Australian—and global—literature.
With the announcement of The Dictionary of Lost Words being adapted for TV, I hope to see more of Pip Williams and conversation surrounding her books. I’m excited to see what she produces next.
Director: Damien Chazelle
Writer: Damien Chazelle
Cast: Brad Pitt, Margot Robbie, and Diego Calva
Running Time: 189 minutes
Rating: 2/10
Babylon is lurid, aggressive, and utterly demented.
Damien Chazelle’s deep thrust into Dante’s Inferno of Hollywood stardom and obscenity, set amidst the technological metamorphosis of cinema and sound from the 1920s onwards, is a relentless barrage of visceral debauchery, sexual objectification, and human degradation. Chazelle has practically modelled the plot of Babylon on Singin’ in the Rain. As the moviemaking industry confronts the impending transition from the silent pictures to the immensely popular ‘talkies’, the careers of some of Hollywood’s nascent and established stars face ruination and obsolescence. So Babylon follows the contours of Singin’ in the Rain, except the former lacks any of the wholesome charm of the latter, and features orgies. It is a three hour lumbering beast of a movie that regularly refuses to die quietly, and it is not a picture I am inclined to ever watch again.
In recent years, it has become public knowledge that the Hollywood film industry has long harbored a toxic underbelly; wherein lies the expectation that one should degrade and subjugate themselves to make headway in the industry. This is Babylon’s treatise: to enlighten the viewer to a historical precedent of gendered and racialized discrimination and abuse within the Hollywood film industry. However, in the age of #metoo and #oscarssowhite, wherein the dominance of white, male power within the entertainment industry has come to the fore of the public consciousness amidst much scrutiny and debate, and where strides are being made to hold abusers to account, and to advocate for greater degrees of inclusivity, representation and respect within the industry, Chazelle’s treatise unfortunately feels both outdated and intensely laboured. And laboured it is in Babylon, with the subtlety of a sledgehammer and the pornographic sensibility of a horny teenager. Chazelle may believe that his movie belongs to the zeitgeist, except Babylon is more provocative than introspective, and it quite regularly feels like a regression, in lieu of a progression, in challenging the structures of white, male power that has long pervaded Hollywood. We should endeavour to find solutions, not reopen old wounds.
Chazelle’s contribution to the historical narrative of Hollywood culture involves the perverse degradation and depravity of its human subjects, which endures for the entirety of its three hour runtime. In the eternity that it takes to move from an elephant excreting onto a camera lens to a descent into the bowels of an L.A snuff dungeon, I wondered if the self-styled provocateur, Damien Chazelle, is punishing his audience as much as his characters. The film is an exhaustingly perennial exercise in human denigration that is summated in a pre-title prologue featuring a boisterous Hollywood mansion party filled with end-to-end debauchery that sets the underlying tone of the movie, and it never relents. Most scenes end with a grisly punchline, and it is truly exasperating. Babylon seeks to illuminate the institutionalised intolerance that white, heterosexual Hollywood has historically fostered towards race, gender, and sexuality, and whilst the film does confer rare moments of topical dialogue to its audience, Chazelle is all too keen to return to the hedonistic excesses of champagne, cocaine and sex, often depriving those fleeting moments of their power.
In what will surely become the most discussed sequence of the film, the climax of Babylon transports us through a cosmic, Space Odyssey-esque montage of cinema’s technological evolution, from cinema’s early beginnings and innovations, such as the conception and the capture of the moving image, to the more recent advances made in the filmmaking process i.e CGI and motion-capture. The montage is crudely stitched together as if Chazelle and his film editor, Tom Cross, only conceived of it a few hours before the production deadline. Ironically, the montage celebrates films that are infinitely superior to Babylon, such as Jurassic Park, The Matrix, Terminator 2: Judgment Day, as well as films that are not so great such as James Cameron’s technically superb, but albeit total bloat-fest Avatar. But what does the montage actually signify? In essence, the montage illustrates how the art of cinema has ultimately endured, thrived, and evolved throughout the decades, despite the personal toll that Hollywood has demanded from its artists. Ultimately though, it is yet another trite argument on the separation of Hollywood art from the Hollywood culture that produces it, and worst still, Chazelle proves himself to be too immature to handle such themes with any tact. Furthermore, the montage creates a dissonance between the evolution of filmmaking technology and the personal losses that come from pursuing a Hollywood career. These two ideas are often irreconcilable, and lack elucidation, but if I had to guess, I’d conclude that Chazelle holds the belief that achievement and progress always requires some measure of personal sacrifice, and that, whilst cinema will live on through its technological change, its stars will inevitably fade. However, as the weight of the film’s preceding three hours of carnage bears down on its montaged climax, one can’t help but interpret Chazelle’s controlling idea as nothing short of cynical and misguided, especially given the recent developments coming out of Hollywood visual effects houses detailing the exploitative working conditions that artists are operating under for demanding and unscrupulous film studios like Marvel Studios and Disney.
Damien Chazelle’s long-time collaborator, Justin Hurwitz, infuses the film with a pulsating and jazzy score – which has been riding high on my Apple Music playlist for a few weeks now. It is the film’s single most creative element, and it certainly accentuates the film’s manic persona. To my ear, the soundtrack also features melodies that are inspired by Hurwitz’s Oscar-winning score from Chazelle’s 2012 La La Land. This is a purposeful decision made by both Hurwitz and Chazelle. La La Land is arguably a love letter to the Hollywood dream, and therefore, Hurwitz’s allusion to La La Land lends a profoundly darker note to Babylon’s nightmarish inversion of that very same dream.
With all its grotesquely lurid and over-the-top proceedings, Babylon evidently wants to polarise audiences and wants to be deemed ‘provocative’ yet one cannot help but feel that such an intent is merely an attempt to excuse the film’s appalling lack of both substance and of any adept directing on Chazelle’s part. Babylon is crude and humourless, and frankly, I was given more enjoyment out of wondering what the boomer couple in front of me thought of the ‘golden-shower scene’. The film’s inter-textual relationship with Singin’ in the Rain is also misjudged, and I doubt that Stanley Donen or Gene Kelly would have appreciated their feel-good film being used as the inspiration for this story. With Babylon, Chazelle self-styles himself as a provocateur and an auteur, which might just be the film’s flattest joke of all given that he’s made one of the worst films of 2023 thus far.
It’s you from the future. I just wanted to let you know that life is good. It’s not always rainbows and sparkles, but it’s good. I’m happy – even though the thought of university makes me stressed, and it always feels like I’m running out of time – I’m happy despite it all.
Nowadays I say yes to spontaneous activities because I know life will never feel as free and liberating as it does right now. I make mistakes but it’s okay, because I try to grow from them – it’s not always easy, but it’s been working so far.
I still hold onto our friendships from home but I now understand that sometimes people grow up and apart. I love every new person I meet here, which isn’t surprising because you and I always fell in love with strangers. Every day I wake up and learn something new. I am learning how to be an adult and how to be a better person. I make an effort to be good and kind. I’m discovering my true self and it’s really fun. You would love to see it.
I try not to worry about the little things, remembering that embarrassment is merely a social construct. Still, sometimes those self-critical voices in my head get a little too loud and it gets hard to ignore them.
I’m still anxious about the future, even though our Buddhist background taught us to be present; I’m always trying to plan ahead. That used to be the only way you knew how to get work done, to complete all of it a few days early. Do not procrastinate. Reward yourself only after all the hard work is done.
Now I’m realising that maybe that only worked when I had the safety and stability of being at home with that clean and strict routine of being at school for six and a half hours and coming home just to be taken care of. I take care of myself now, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
I just wish you, my younger self, knew that you didn’t always have to know the right answers. Remember what Mum always says, “you never know what will happen tomorrow”. Why do you still feel uneasy about your career? If you believed that, why did you always feel uneasy about the future?
Maybe it’s because no one ever told you that growing up is tough, or maybe they did and you didn’t believe them. You didn’t know if there would be a safety net waiting for you when you fell down the rabbit hole. You could never think past getting into university, and now that you’re here you still don’t know what’ll happen once you get your degree. But now I know it is okay not to know. You don’t know that life is a cycle of trial and error, but I do.
I love you, my younger self, but sometimes I think you may have conditioned me to be an over-ambitious perfectionist. You made me dream big and want to change the world and, while a part of me still wants those things, I’m worried that if I fail I will be disappointing all the people counting on me. That seems unfair, right? To have the burden of the expectations of everyone I care about and love.
You still have lots of dreams, but the pathway just seems a bit unclear. I think that’s what scares me: the unknown and the lack of clarity. To dream as big as I have is a scary thing. That irresistible drive to achieve every dream you ever dared to have is what’s driving me to keep going now.
I wish you had learnt not to compare yourself to others at a younger age. I would tell you, “you don’t have to be doing the most all the time and that you’re allowed to take things slow and go at your own pace”. I know it’s easier said than done, but that doesn’t make it any less true.
The thing is, I keep comparing myself to you too. I keep thinking about how productive you are compared to me now. I’m fearful of losing motivation and of giving up. I don’t want to disappoint you, little Chetha, but I don’t want to be exhausted either. I am trying to maintain that balance but it feels like walking on a tightrope. If I concentrate on moving one foot in front of the other, I know I’ll be okay.
Life is uncertain and dreams are expensive. But I wanted to tell you that I now know it’s okay to change plans. I know that I’m worth more than the grade I get on an assignment. I know that I can make decisions and pursue my dreams at my own pace. I don’t want you to be worried about me, I promise I’ll be someone you’re proud of.
Lots of love, always and forever,
Chetha (from today) xx
PS. When overwhelmed, listen to the lyrics of this song. I think you’d appreciate it.
Originally published in Woroni Vol. 72 Issue 2 ‘To Be Confirmed’
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
We never know what will happen tomorrow. We never even know what will happen in the next few hours of each day. We have so many questions and not enough answers. We make plans just for them to change. Life itself will always be uncertain, but isn’t that what we should love about it? The possibilities are always endless. But sometimes all we yearn for is confirmation that everything will be okay. That we’ll be happy and healthy and that all our dreams will come true.
Do you have any uncertainties in your life at the moment? What do you wish you could confirm, if life was to be ever so generous?
Whether or not I can study abroad in Japan this year?! Anonymous, 20.
COVID! Everything is really uncertain in jobs, travel, education and socialising. It’s changing so often that it’s hard to keep up to date. Ruby, 19.
What I’ll be doing one year from now. Will COVID catch me if I go to Europe in the middle of the year? Clancy, 20.
I wish the world would tell me if he liked me back. Anonymous, 23.
I feel like I have many uncertainties in my life that I wish I knew all the answers to. But to be honest, the beauty of life is this idea of not knowing. You have no idea what will be happening in a week, a month or a year, etc. Anonymous, 19.
Whether I will be successful, not just career but whether I will be happy and content with my life. Anonymous, 20.
My love life lol. Anonymous, 19.
Will life, in particular uni, ever actually get back to normal? I feel as though I might never get the uni experience I was looking forward to for years and talked about by friends and family. Dacey, 19.
As I approach my graduation, I feel very uncertain about what my life will be like in one year’s time. Where will I be? What will I be doing? Who will I be? Will I enjoy it? Rose, 21.
My fit for Badger on Thursday. Anonymous, 18.
Where I can confidently handle being COVID positive in the inevitable situation that I contract the virus and what my health will be life after. Anonymous, 47.
My future. Anonymous, 19.
Everything, I guess. Mainly if I’ll end up where I want to, even if that plan changes. Jasie, 19.
I want to know if I’m liked. I want to know whether people find me annoying or not, not so that I can dial down my personality for others, but so I can find a balance which will make everyone feel comfortable around me. Anonymous, 18.
If my family is happy and healthy. Anonymous, 20.
I feel uncertain with my place in the world as a person of colour. I’ve so often been belittled by white people. It’s hard to feel safe when quite often, white people speak over POC or try to suppress them. Anonymous, 23.
If this is going to be the year of my burn out or revival. Anonymous, 20.
Employment and financial future. Currently super poor, I wish I could be told that everything will be okay. Pete, 20.
What I’m eating for dinner tonight. Matilda, 19.
I worry about the fact that I’ll probably never be able to buy a house. Anonymous, 20.
Whether I’ll fail my supplementary exam, lmao. Anonymous, 19.
Uncertain on the direction of uni life and my career following. Gus, 18.
Uni experience and whether it will be fun or sad. When will COVID stop defining our lives? When will I pull myself together? How to get rid of pantry moths. Anonymous, 19.
If I have COVID or not or if I’m going to get it in the near future. James, 19.
I’m uncertain about what the world is going to look like in 10, 20, 30 years etc. When, from an environmental standpoint, the path that we humans have been on isn’t a reciprocal one, but a more linear destructive one. And that’s the reason I’m doing the degree that I’m doing. Because I’m uncertain about what the natural world is going to look like in 30 years. I want to be a part of those who try their best to preserve it and find more sustainable and regenerative ways for us humans to live. Jack, 19.
Whether I will ever eat a quesadilla as good as the one I just had. Tiarna, 20.
I’m really uncertain about where I’ll be in 10 years from now. Sean, 21.
If my car’s going to break down today or tomorrow. Sarah, 21.
I’m uncertain about my future, like whether I will succeed in life and be happy and content. I’m uncertain about the future security of the world, both in war ways but also access to resources such as food. Maddie, 20.
Whether my package is going to arrive on time. Olivia, 20.
Uncertainties abound and yet the most troubling of all seems to be my own indeterminate feelings! How much could the going-ons of the outer world matter when my own inner world is wildly thrashing shades of sensation that I must say are the emotions and thoughts of a sentient being? Anonymous, 19.
I am uncertain as to whether I am on the right path and if the decisions I am making now are leading me to the life I want to lead. Ollie, 19.
Originally published in Woroni Vol. 72 Issue 2 ‘To Be Confirmed’
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
Comments Off on Breathing Through Today and Hoping For Tomorrow: A Review of BE by BTS
NOTE: All lyrics translations taken from bangtansubs.com
“The world came to a stop one day” sings the melodious, wistful voice of Jungkook at the beginning of the first song and title track of ‘BE’. This first line immediately tells you what the song is about and sets the tone for the album. ‘BE’, BTS’ 9th studio album, is written for a world caught in a pandemic, where “time passes on its own, without a word of apology”. For this world, their message is ‘Life Goes On’. The message might sound too simple, but BTS have never been ones for easy comfort. A few years ago, BTS’ message was ‘Love Yourself’. They took a phrase often uttered casually but dove deep into it, spending two years, three albums and a series of interconnected videos demonstrating the complex, journey through pain, heartbreak, self-questioning and self-discovery required to reach a point of true self-love. They didn’t just throw the message out there, they approached it with care, depth and real thoughtfulness. That is what BTS always do and what they have done with this new album as well.
‘BE’ is not as intense and grand as some of their previous works, but it has the same underlying sensitivity and empathy. The title track ‘Life Goes On’ is no empty reassurance. It acknowledges that things are hard, but asks you to close your eyes for a moment and think of a future where things might be okay. A warm, sentimental alternative hip hop song, it is intimate and comforting. Usually ones for more energetic or dramatic title tracks, BTS take a softer approach this time. The second song on the album, ‘Fly To My Room’, also reflects that approach. A laidback, chill track with a nice, lazy sway to it, it tackles the suffocation of being stuck in your room with an uplifting playfulness. The idea behind it isn’t revolutionary, but it is refreshing: We can’t fly anywhere else, so why not just fly to our rooms? While the first two tracks both have a balance of hope and sadness, the third track ‘Blue and Grey’ delves much more into sadness. The sadness of this song isn’t a heavy, emotional one. Like the colours blue and grey, it is a more muted melancholy. With soulful vocals, thoughtful rapping and lyrics like “I just wanna be happier, Is even this too much to ask for?”, it is both heartbreaking and comforting at the same time. It is the quiet solace of knowing that someone else out there has nights as lonely and cold as yours.
One thing I have always loved about BTS albums is the structure. There is always a logic, an intention behind the way the tracks are ordered. In ‘BE’, track 4 ‘Skit’ splits the album into two parts, wherein part 1 is the more moody half and part 2 is the ‘enough crying let’s dance’ half of the album. This split is, in some ways, marked by the theme of the skit itself. Skits are a common feature in many of BTS’ older albums, and they consist of recorded conversations between the members. There is no music, only talking, a tradition that comes from old-school hip hop culture, where rappers often had skits in their mixtapes. The skit in this album recorded their reactions to getting their first number 1 on the Billboard Hot 100, a historic moment for them, their fans and the larger music industry. The song that achieved this, ‘Dynamite’, wasn’t originally part of their plans. If things were normal, they would have been on a grand world tour at that time. Motivated to put out something happy and energetic in depressing times, they achieved some of their greatest success with this unexpected release. It was a bright spark in otherwise very dark times, and it is this kind of light that the second half of the album focuses on. The music becomes a little more upbeat, reminding us that there are reasons to push through.
For BTS, that reason is their fans. Forced to cancel performances and concerts, they have constantly stated that the hardest thing for them has been not being able to see their fans. This is reflected in the music video for ‘Life Goes On’, which shows the band singing in an empty stadium, the lyrics “I remember” playing over the emotional scene. In many ways, this album is a letter to their loved ones, conveying their longing, while also promising that the distance hasn’t changed anything. In track 5 of the album, BTS reassure their fans, through funky disco pop, that they share a ‘Telepathy’ between them, that “Even though right now we’re far away, Our hearts are still the same”. The Korean title of the song, 잠시, which can be translated to ‘for a moment’, is meaningful too. It is impossible not to groove to the song, and it urges you to forget about your worries, if only for a moment. Track 7, ‘Stay’, is heartfelt with a similar message – it doesn’t matter how long or how great the separation, the boys “know you always stay”. The sincere lyrics are juxtaposed with high-energy electronic music, a contrast that can also be seen in the combination of soaring vocals with earnest, gravely rap. I can imagine this song being performed at a concert, with the audience dancing and jumping but also shouting out every lyric straight from the heart.
Nestled between these odes to the part of their job they love, is a song about the part of their job they don’t. ‘Dis-ease’ addresses the disease of work – a disease that these 7 boys, all bearers of heavy crowns, know all too well. While the world is plagued by the virus, BTS are plagued additionally by their inability to stop working, their extreme discomfort with the idea of rest. Forced by circumstances to take a break, they lament, “My heart needs a vacation too”. The topic of the song isn’t a fun one, but it is tackled with the same creativity and contrast displayed in other parts of the album. Member J-Hope played a major role in its production, and the track has J-Hope written all over it. A natural dancer, he transfers a bounce, a rhythm to the song. With old school hip hop, sick flow from the rappers and gorgeous harmonies from the vocalists, the song feels like a colourful, but controlled, explosion. The real ‘Dynamite’, of course, is the last track. Originally released as a single, I was worried that the song might feel out of place in the album. But, listening to it from start to finish, it makes sense to end with fireworks and joy.
‘BE’ is one of those things you don’t realise you need until it’s given to you, like a tight hug from a friend who senses your anxiety before you do yourself. I felt the music, the words, go right inside me and loosen some of the knots in my chest, making it a little easier to breathe. BTS don’t have lofty goals with this album, they don’t pretend to solve the world’s problems with some new songs. But, by providing a hand to hold and a warm presence to share hope with, they made 2020 a bit more bearable.