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The Language of Kindness will teach you what it really means to care

With our country’s nurses finally being acknowledged, Christie Watson’s memoir is uplifting and takes you on her twenty year journey of being a nurse

The Language of Kindness, the Sunday Times bestseller, by Christie Watson, is a nurse’s story and an honest, moving account of the twists and turns her career has taken. Few other careers can produce a memoir that will bring the reader to tears, make them laugh, smile and even sometimes fear the next page. This year has given our nurses the deserving appreciation and recognition that has been lacking until now, and most of us are hoping for this to continue beyond the pandemic. Published by Penguin Vintage, it’s a captivating and dramatic page-turner and an important read for anyone who uses our NHS and benefits from the infinite compassion, empathy and love of our nurses.

Comparable to This is Going to Hurt by Adam Kay, it’s a passionate and very real non-fictional read which, unlike many memoirs, almost feels like a novel for all the heartwarming themes and poignant, tear-jerking moments. In 322 pages Watson walks us through her decision to train for nursing, explaining that, like many, she initially had an array of exciting ideas for career paths and constantly changed her mind. She explains that she had wanted to live many different lives, stepping into different shoes, but that nursing has provided her with exactly that.

When Watson had her blood drawn at the start of the career, she was told “you might want to rethink your career”. Twenty years after persisting with that very career, she teaches us that the secret is more to do with the love that nurses can offer, rather than a strong stomach.

Watson takes the reader through the stages of her career on different wards, from mental health to antenatal. We get to know her patients and feel the empathy and the connections she forms radiating from the words on the page. She teaches us that the bond between a nurse and a patient is a special one.

‘It forces us to confront an aspect of nursing that many of us have never had to think about.’

We get glimpses into the funny and awkward anecdotal moments. She speaks of the student partying and her failed attempt with her first needle, as well as the time she accidentally fell asleep in her clothes at work. We learn that there is more to nursing than simple facts, figures and medical procedures. Not only is her job one of science and logistics, but to be the rock for patients and families through the most stressful and heartbreaking moments of their lives. She says, ‘Nursing means recognising that when there is a large white cloud at the centre of her child’s scan, a mother needs something important to hold onto.’

There were many moments in the memoir which stayed with me long after putting it down. One of which was the description of cleaning a dead body. It forces us to confront an aspect of nursing that many of us have never had to think about. This scene encapsulates the essence of nursing – bravery in the face of some of the most daunting tasks imaginable.

The emotional rollercoaster of a book also includes facts about the history of the profession. These are an interesting element exploring the origins of nursing, but the inclusion of these sometimes produced a disjointed read, occasionally feeling as if they’d been thrown in. However, the relevant and inspiring quotes at the beginning of each chapter are a nice addition, breaking up the narrative and adding even more food for thought.

All-in-all the book is a heavy and touching read, especially if, like me, you have a sensitive disposition. Make time for this book when you’re ready to have a good cry and feel things you didn’t realise you could feel.

It’s both light and dark and even haunting at times. But that’s what Watson intended as that is exactly how her twenty years as a nurse have been, facing death and tragedy everyday. She shines a light on this crucial job in our society, exposing the magnitude of the work they do and the emotional trauma that comes with it. As members of that society, it is vital that we don’t shy away from stories like this one, but learn about them and appreciate them, because we will all be cared for by a nurse at some point in our lives.

Conscience and Morality in Graham Greene’s Ministry of Fear

‘In childhood we live under the brightness of immortality – heaven is as near and actual as the seaside. Behind the complicated details of the world stand the simplicities […] that is why no later books satisfy us like those which were read to us in childhood – for those promised a world of great simplicity of which we know the rules’.
Graham Greene, The Ministry of Fear, p. 88-9.

Graham Greene classified his novel The Ministry of Fear as an entertainment, due to its espionage plot. However, many critics would disagree, arguing that it contains serious underlying themes.[1] The narrative focuses on the protagonist Arthur Rowe’s struggle with grief and his journey as he comes to terms with his mercy killing of his wife. Focusing on the character’s own identity and conscience, Greene brings into question the meaning of morality and the definitions of good and evil as his protagonist struggles to perceive himself as an innocent man.

Opening with the presentation of a village fete, the protagonist enters a state of nostalgia; this is triggered by the innocence of the event and the childhood memories that this evokes. The author leaves the reader feeling empathetic; it becomes clear that the character Arthur Rowe is a lost man searching for his childhood innocence and naivety. In his search for release from the burden of guilt, the protagonist reverts to his past in an attempt to recreate the childlike innocence that he remembers, refusing to accept this as an unattainable goal. Throughout the novel, Greene focuses on the theme of childhood versus adulthood, as Arthur Rowe, an adult man, reminisces about his own childhood, avoiding the horrors that his adult-self has experienced. The protagonist often looks to children’s literature and, through these references, Greene indicates the problems that come with looking to fiction as moral guidance. Whilst describing his reading of these children’s stories, the narrator states that he does so ‘not so much because he liked them as because he had read them as a child, and they carried no adult memories’.[2] The protagonist is clearly using literature as a means of escape from his adult identity, rather than facing his guilt. He narrates that ‘in childhood we live under the brightness of immortality – heaven is as near and actual as the seaside. Behind the complicated details of the world stand the simplicities […] that is why no later books satisfy us like those which were read to us in childhood – for those promised a world of great simplicity of which we know the rules’ (p. 88-9). He recognises that adult literature is tainted and confused by complexity and ambiguity through experience, looking to simplistic childhood literature as a moral guidance.

In Book Two of the novel, Greene disorientates the reader by introducing Arthur Rowe as Digby; this disruption reflects the confusion and disorientation that the character also feels. Mary Ann Melfi notes that ‘subconscious growth in Rowe’s case is an inadvertent process wherein the subconscious takes control, working at its own pace. Here, the conscious mind relaxes, and the subconscious fulminates before manifesting itself.’[3] The protagonist’s forgetting of his identity works as a kind of healing process, administered by his own subconscious. His own pain and vulnerability become unbearable and, rather than facing his fears and facing himself, it is easier to forget and live a lie. The character’s conscience is so burdened with guilt that he entirely recreates his own identity, erasing the torturous memories of his wife’s death in a final desperate attempt to move forward. His disturbing memories have been erased and at this point in the narrative he is demonstrated to be at peace, viewing himself as an innocent man. The character of Digby represents the Arthur Rowe that would have been had he not killed his wife and suffered with the guilt. Arguably, the character has achieved his goal of innocent content through the erasure of his adult memories. However, this is shown to be only a temporary state, in which his subconscious is allowing him to heal and decipher his identity without the pain of facing his crime head on. As Arthur contemplates his childhood, he reflects on the fact that ‘he learned before he was seven what pain was like – he wouldn’t willingly allow even a rat to suffer it’ (p. 88). The reader learns of the character’s inability to witness pain and suffering due to his empathetic nature. As Digby, the protagonist feels great sympathy for the character of Stone; he remarks that ‘he felt capable of murder for the release of that gentle tormented creature’ (p. 141). Despite his identity being entirely forgotten and recreated, the sense of empathy that Arthur Rowe possessed seems ever-present. His core human nature remains the same, indicating a contingency and suggesting that even Digby, undisturbed by the burden of an ill wife, would have committed the same crime due to his own moral code. The protagonist’s tendency to empathise and pity others has ultimately led to his mental destruction; through Digby, it becomes clear that this is inherent in his human nature.

References
Featured Image: Front cover of the 1974 Penguin edition of the novel.

[1] James M. Welsh and Gerald R. Barrett, ‘Graham Greene’s Ministry of Fear: The Transformation of an Entertainment’, Literature and Film Quarterly, 2 (1974), p. 312.

[2] Graham Greene, The Ministry of Fear (New York: Penguin Books, 1963), (pp.20-1). All other references are to this edition and are given in parenthesis in the main body of the text

[3] Mary Ann. Melfi, ‘The Landscape of Grief: Graham Greene’s ‘The Ministry of Fear’’, South Atlantic Review, 69 (2004) <http:// www.jstor.org/stable/20064577 > [accessed 19 April 2018] pp. 54-73, p. 64.

Written by Amy Fretwell.
© The Literature Blog, 2018. All Rights Reserved.

Freedom in Anthony Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange

‘What I do I do because I like to do.’
-Anthony Burgess, A Clockwork Orange, p. 31.

Anthony Burgess’ novella, published in 1962, invites discussion on the question of what is true freedom, and how much of it should we be permitted to have? T. H. Green’s definition of true freedom includes negative freedom, as well as positive.1 This is indicative of the idea that when freedom is desired, this idea of true freedom may not be implied. Instead, he suggests a sense of freedom with limitations, in which individuals are not free to do entirely as one wishes due to the potential negative consequences of this, as the more desirable concept.

Burgess’ protagonist, Alex, demonstrates Green’s idea of true freedom, as he is initially free from coercion or restriction and regulation. He also seemingly possesses the freedom to do as he pleases, committing monstrous crimes for his own pleasure. Although, as a society, we may supposedly crave a full sense of freedom, it is clear through characters such as Alex, that this complete sense of freedom may be detrimental to the community and therefore limitations must be enforced. The character narrates that ‘what I do I do because I like to do’, exemplifying his freedom of choice at the beginning of the novella and his application of this full sense of freedom.2 On the issue of morality, Burgess tells us in his introduction that ‘The important thing is moral choice. Evil has to exist along with good, in order that moral choice may operate. Life is sustained by the grinding opposition of moral entities’.3 Through the obscenities and gruesome crimes that the protagonist and his gang commit, we learn that with freedom comes moral choice and with good comes evil. Therefore, if we, as a society, allow freedom to be used for good, then it inevitably will be used in the same way for evil.

Once Alex’s actions have been altered by the aversion therapy, the state have influenced and limited his sense of true freedom, manipulating his freedom to act as he chooses, as well as removing his freedom from coercion. However, Sumner argues that Alex’s choices were never free for him to make, as he has always been manipulated by the state. He contests that the character’s criminal actions, and even the cause of these, being the desire for criminality, are ‘socially or institutionally conditioned.’4 This idea suggests that, although Burgess depicts the authoritative state to deprive Alex of his free will, and freedom to choose to act independently, in fact, the protagonist did not possess this to begin with. Sumner argues that Alex acts against the state, as his personal form of resistance. He furthers these ideas, claiming that ‘In a social and political register, Alex is forced to choose between totalitarianism and anarchy. That choice is false and, if anything, testifies to a lack of individual freedom. If there are no good options, then individual choice is a mere abstraction; one might as well flip a coin.’5 Although the character seemingly actively chooses to behave violently and break the law, Sumner argues that this, in fact, is his choice between two options dictated to him by the authority, and therefore, he does not possess the true concept of freedom. Alex is a product of the totalitarian state and he is therefore conditioned to behave violently as his form of resistance.

References
Featured Image: Front Cover of Penguin’s 2013 edition. See Anthony Burgess, A Clockwork Orange (London: Penguin Classics, 2013).

1. T. H. Green in Adrian Blau, ‘Against Positive and Negative Freedom’, Political Theory, 32. 4 (2004) http://www.jstor.org/stable/4148106 [accessed 2 May 2018] p. 549-50.

2. Anthony Burgess, A Clockwork Orange (London: Penguin Group, 1972), p. 31. All other references are to this edition and are given in parenthesis in the main body of the text.

3. Anthony Burgess, A Clockwork Orange (New York: W.W Norton & Company, 1986), p. XIII.

4. Charles Sumner, ‘Humanist Drama in A Clockwork Orange’, The Yearbook of English Studies: Literature of the 1950s and 1960s, 42 (2012) http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.5699/yearenglstud.42.2012.0049 [accessed 1 May 2018] (p. 57-7).

Racism in Eudora Welty’s American Short Story Where Is the Voice Coming From?

In the short story Where Is the Voice Coming From?, Eudora Welty writes from the perspective of a white, underprivileged and jealous man. Driven by feelings of hatred and frustration, the narrator recounts his murder of his black neighbour. Based on the true event of Medgar Evers in Mississippi in 1963, Welty exemplifies the racially fuelled conflicts that she witnessed throughout her lifetime in the American South; this is furthered through the basing of her fiction town, Thermopylae, on the capital Jackson. By basing her text on a true event, the author prompts the reader to question the fraught racial bias prevalent in American society by highlighting the horrific treatment of the black community. Narrated by the killer, Welty gives an insight into his motivations behind the murder; in doing so, she allows the reader to experience some level of sympathy for the character. As William Murray expounds, Welty avoids a straightforward assault on the people of Mississippi […] instead of a simple vilification of individuals, she delivers depictions of injustice that illustrate the complicity of the southern environment as a whole.’1 Rather than focusing on individual prejudice Welty, as Murray states, allows readers to place blame on the social systems for racial violence.

Welty demonstrates how the racial tensions in society incite hatred on both an individual and personal level. Her murderous white character believes that he commits his crime for personal reasons, refusing to accept that he was manipulated into possessing a discriminatory doctrine by the larger system that he is adhering to. The narrator repeatedly says ‘I done what I done for my own pure-D satisfaction’, exposing his naivety and passivity as he abides by the racist system in place; he fails to realise or admit that he did not act solely out of personal choice.2 The character epitomises the superiority that white men felt entitled to in the Southern state; he feels cheated by his black neighbour and is drawn to act on his jealousy. Although the character appears to believe that he acts on his own accord, this hatred is in fact sparked by a belief in white supremacy, a sense of entitlement enforced by society. His victim, Roland Summers, leads a desirable lifestyle which remains unattainable for our narrator despite his position as a white American citizen.

Welty uses the short story style to provide a glimpse into the white perspective, as well as the hatred that aroused by the community and the media. At the beginning of the story, whilst viewing Roland Summers’ face on the television, the narrator says to his wife ‘“You don’t have to set and look at a black n*gger face no longer than you want to, or listen to what you don’t want to hear. It’s still a free country”’ (p. 396). Immediately, the narrator illustrates his sense of superiority; he believes that he and his wife should not have to be subjected to viewing a black man on their TV screen. He goes on to state ‘I reckon that’s how I give myself the idea’ (p. 396). Although recognising that his crime was initially provoked by the media, he continues to adamantly declare that he formulated the idea himself. The attack, the narrator demands, is a personal attack.

Although the narrator is adamant that he acted alone, succeeding in this way to carry out his own sense of justice, it may be argued that he does feel a sense of remorse for his crime. Although the narrator continues to deny this remorse, Daniel Wood suggests that it is in the dropping of the murder weapon at the scene that implies a feeling of guilt.3 Despite his apparent pride and sense of achievement as he recounts the murder, this sense of guilt and remorse is made apparent through his continual attempts to justify his actions. Welty furthers this idea of the murderer’s remorse, through the format of the short story. The text acts as a recounted narration, and therefore a confession by the criminal. He also states that ‘I reckon you have to tell somebody’ (p. 399), insinuating that he felt burdened by his crime and unable to live with himself, without confessing. This is illustrated by Welty’s attempt to explain the murder by choosing not to demonise the murderer, but rather portray him to an extent as a victim of societal manipulation. Essentially the narrator is little more than a product of society, who fails to recognise societies control over himself. Welty therefore allows us to sympathise with her villain; this is particularly shown at the end of the story which concludes: ‘I set in my chair, with nobody home but me, and I start to play, and sing a-Down. And sing a-down, down, down, down. Sing a down, down, down, down. Down’ (p. 401). Welty succeeds in humanising her narrator by the end of the text, engaging the reader with a sense of responsibility for the racism that provoked the attack. In this way, Welty demonstrates that the racial tensions that existed require a shared responsibility by all members of society. As the narrator himself declares, ‘“At least I kept some dern teen-ager from North Thermopylae getting there and doing it first”’. In this, the narrator attempts to justify his actions by suggesting that the murder would have been committed with or without his involvement.

References
Featured Image- Portrait of Medgar Evers, taken in 1958 by Francis H. Mitchell. Associated Press/Ebony Collection.

1. William Murray. ‘Learning to Listen: The Way a Society Speaks in Eudora Welty’s “Where Is the Voice Coming From?” and “The Demonstrators”, Eudora Welty Review (8), 2016, p. 109.

2. Eudora Welty, ‘Where Is the Voice Coming From?’ in The Oxford Book of American Short Stories, ed. by Joyce Carol Oates (1974; New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), pp. 395-401 (p. 397) All other references are to this edition and are given parenthetically.

3. Daniel Wood, ‘At a Loss for Words: Subtext, Silence, and Sympathy in ‘Where Is the Voice Coming from?’, Eudora Welty Review (3), 2011, pp. 110-111.

Written by Amy Fretwell
© The Literature Blog, 2018. All Rights Reserved.