Finn's English Journal

I was awoken by the searing pain of the ground pressed against my cheek. I got up quickly and  my feet failed me, collapsing as the ground gave way. The precarious nature of my footing confirmed my suspicions; I had found myself atop a dune of sand.

I grasped a handful of grains to prove this, the sand burned against my dry skin as it cascaded back toward its kin. I squinted, permitting small cautious steps as I inspected my surroundings, the sinking of my feet now matched the sinking sensation the desert was eliciting. I remarked that I could have stumbled from any of these dunes and observed  the exact same thing; oceans of sand stretching further than my eyes could see and my legs could venture.

I tried my hardest to descend the dune elegantly but found myself sliding rather than walking to its base. The horizon bulged and writhed to the rhythm of the sun’s heat, threatening to burst at its seams and bleed into the blue sky. I decided that as my arrival here was still an enigma, every direction promised an equal chance of salvation, or indeed an equal chance of hopelessness. After scaling my third dune, there was little to mark my headway other than the shallow footprints I had left in my wake, my mind could muse only on how magnificently barren this golden wasteland was, and how much longer I could endure it. Beneath my feet there were no signs of life, no cacti, no insects nor desert foxes nor armadillos nor vultures harbinging my inevitable doom. Nothing. Nothing but me and a seabed lacking in a sea to provide for it.

This desert was distinctly prosaic, and the disheartening symmetry of this sand prison seemed to have kept me in a stupor. The blistering heat now reflected back onto me from the sand I walked on, as if I had been caught between the ground and the sky whilst absorbed in a heated debate.

My clothes hung on me like bandages and I felt the weight of my body as I trudged through the thick air that snaked around my visage. The ground beneath me began clinging to my footsteps, an omen that I hadn’t long before I fell prey to the sands . I had forgiven the desert for being so stark, I could not think of a single creature that would wish to share in this burning embrace. My legs once again failed me, and my eyes followed them. I admired the dazzling orange of the sun as it shone at me from behind my eyelids, and its glow faded to black.

I awoke to a comparative haven of hospitality; the ground beneath me no longer burned, but kept a modest heat. My eyes no longer needed to squint as I stared up at the sky now dyed fuchsia and midnight purple. The sun had completed its rounds and now the night filled itself with the chirps of insects and the rustlings of animals, they echoed between the basins of sand and filled me with hope. The idea that I was not entirely alone inside the hourglass I have been confined to invigorated me, and made me determined to survive the sun’s impending return. I sat upright, retreating my hand toward my chest as I felt the tickle of an insect march across it, going about its business absentmindedly.

As I surveyed my surroundings, the once desolate desert had come to life now that the sands had become less punishing. Ants patrolled their quarters, woodpeckers flittered overhead, and as my eyes adjusted to the dark, a silhouette of a ferret like creature could be made out in the distance, clawing at the sand in search of something. The watch on my wrist read midnight, and I shook the sand out of the crack in the glass face and it ticked appreciatively. It felt like an artifact from a time and place long ago. It was comforting to own something that did not belong in the desert, and made me feel inspired to prove that I didn’t either. The night was blossoming, and the clicks and cries and scurries and chatters of the animals flowed amongst the amber valleys, filling the night air with life and my heart with promise of leaving this place.

In this essay I will be comparing William Shakespeare’s and Robert Browning’s work and how uncertainty is used in Othello, Porphyria’s lover and Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came. I will be contrasting this with historical ideologies from the respective times of the tragedies. While each poem is dissimilar in device and emotive undertone, the three all employ uncertainty in very congruent manners, and this is what will be investigated in this essay.

Porphyria’s Lover by Robert Browning parallels Othello markedly; in the play a great amount of uncertainty is exhibited by the protagonist of the poem known only as the Lover. However, in this poem the Lover seems to begin in an unsure state seen in the quote “And [Porphyria] kneeled and made the cheerless grate blaze up and make the cottage warm…” implying the Lover had not lit the fire on an (as described) “stormy” night prior to Porphyria’s arrival. This suggests the Lover was disturbed or harboured malicious intent from the onset. This is certainly behaviour seen in Othello after he suspects Desdemona of infidelity and is unsure of how to react. Oddly, in this instance it would seem that the Lover is not the party who is made the cuckold, but instead the poem suggests that Porphyria is married to another man and the Lover is her paramour.

The poem, which is told from the perspective of the Lover, refers to Porphyria in the quote “laid her soiled gloves by, untied”, initially a simple remark, but when contextualised seems to metaphor Porphyria’s relationship with her true husband. This can be seen in the quotes “soiled gloves”, pertaining to her unfaithfulness, and “untied” which relates directly to Porphyria’s indecision in her relations between these two men. These small remarks of stinging jealousy are comparable with Othello’s remarks of distaste in what he believes is Desdemona’s duplicitous nature, exemplified well in Act 4 Scene 1 with the quote “And she’s obedient; as you say obedient, very obedient – proceed you in your tears – concerning this, sir – O well-painted passion!” when referring to Desdemona. Othello’s resentment toward his partner is presented in a similar inferred practice to the Lover, showing the two to be derailed and bitter in their uncertainty, ultimately leading to their undoing.

Childe Roland To the Dark Tower Came is very similar to Porphyria’s Lover in the regard that both poems begin with the protagonist already consumed by their suspiciousness and distrust of those around them, going so far as Roland’s uncertainly becoming the tangible manifestation of ‘The Dark Tower’. However in this poem there is no immediate object of affection, which separates it from the other two texts. There is instead an object of dread and misery. Roland is, for seemingly obscure reasons embarking on a journey, one that he appears to be doing acquiescently, believing he is being manipulated by what is described to be the Devil, or a similarly maleficent ethereal being, (at least from the perspective of Roland). His distrust is apparent from the first line in the poem: “My first thought was, he lied in every word…” referring to the ‘Devil’, describing him as a “hoary cripple with malicious eye[s]”, however Roland must either believe the Cripple (at least in part) or have no genuine volition in his undertaking of the journey, and is closer to a passenger within his own narrative. This suggests then that Roland’s suspicion is simply his reaction to the uncertainty of his situation; much of his whereabouts is open to interpretation but the biblical relations, especially those associated with death and loss such as “At the thought, great black bird, Apollyon’s bosom friend…” imply that perhaps the journey of Roland is embarking on is to an afterlife of some kind, as Apollyon is an angel of destruction and death. This would disassociate Childe Roland with the other poems when concerning matters of love, however the three then become united under the theme of loss, as this is the true universal theme between the three texts, with uncertainty as the cause of the loss in the protagonists.

Roland’s uncertainty about his death and what is to become of him differs to Othello’s significantly. While it can be observed that both Othello and Roland are plagued by doubt which leads them to deteriorate as their narratives progress; however at the summit of these texts the fates of these two protagonists bifurcate. Othello’s uncertainty leads him to anger, consuming him and his collected judgement and leading him to the taking of his wife’s and (consequently) his own life. While Roland instead finds weariness and suspicion, that later alleviate and give way to acceptance. This results in, for better or worse, Roland leading himself to ‘The Dark Tower’. However the perceived manipulator in Browning’s poem is, similarly to Porphyria from Porphyria’s Lover, unable to be classed as either benevolent or malicious in their orchestration of their respective protagonists; seen only from the perspective of the aggrieved party, our perspective of Porphyria and The Cripple is skewed by this bias.

The Cripple of Childe Roland can be juxtaposed with Iago of Othello, as both antagonists imbue uncertainty through verbal manipulation. This is observed in the quote “She [Desdemona] did deceive her father, in marrying you; and when she seemed to shake and fear your looks loved them most.” This quote from Iago toward Othello shows how Iago is creating uncertainty through a statement of unequivocal truth, that has been utilized to work against Desdemona; a theme of “turning virtue into pitch” that is seen also in Porphyria’s Lover. The couplet “In the long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around” when the Lover refers to strangling Porphyria with her own hair. This appears symbolic that Browning (alongside Shakespeare) place the virtues of the love interests, for example Desdemona’s kindness and Porphyria’s golden hair as the cause of their indirect undoing during the protagonist’s period of uncertainty, however Browning uses a more literal iteration of this principle.

Othello, however varies from from Porphyria’s Lover in the respect of the protagonist’s manipulator is an entirely separate entity from the love interest; it is in this regard Othello can then be compared to Childe Roland, as the manipulation and eliciting of uncertainty are seen from third parties and used as literary devices to provide the audience with a semblance of time within the narrative. This can be seen in the transition of Roland’s great suspicion toward The Cripple and his surroundings, to then accepting his fate and allowing for himself to pass onto the afterlife. This is also true of Othello, who when first is confronted by Iago and told of untrue suspicions remains resolute; “ I will see before I doubt, when I doubt, prove…”. Othello in this quote exhibits no outward signs of uncertainty and is dismissive of Iago’s insinuations. However after more encounters with Iago, and far more acts of deceit, Othello becomes clearly uncertain and frustrated; “O, devil, devil! If that the Earth would teem with woman’s tears, Each drop would prove a crocodile.” From the quote  it is clear that Othello’s uncertainty is drawing him toward anger, and ultimately his undoing. Othello references an idiom of ‘crocodile tears’, this figuratively implies that Desdemona is false in her confusion over her husband’s indignation. This further implies Othello believes Desdemona is false in her marriage. Not only has Othello become explicitly suspicious of Desdemona’s infidelity, but speaks of it in her presence. The emotionally detrimental effects of uncertainty are modelled immaculately in these two quotes, mere scenes apart, and this examples how the passage of time within the narrative is influenced by the antagonists and their corruption of their respective protagonists. Another parallel that can be drawn between the two texts is that Othello and Roland make demonic comparisons when referencing Desdemona and The Cripple respectively.  Roland does so in a more figurative and inferred manner, as it is in his description of “a hoary cripple” and that the man’s mouth was “scarce able to afford suppression of the glee […] at one more victim gained thereby” that indicate that Roland’s encounter with this ethereal being is a confrontation with the Devil.

The three poems diverge from one another in emotive and narrative outcome. Despite this, a general gravitation can be distinguished; all protagonists become uncertain through emotional manipulation, leading to the climax of each text. This is exemplified most prominently in Othello and Porphyria’s Lover, as there is a highly possessive mentality seen from the male protagonists toward the women within their narrative. While the two poems are written nearly 200 years apart, the ideologies towards women appear to have remained largely unchanged regarding relationship status and marriage. This explains why Porphyria could not simply divorce from her legitimate marital partner, seen in the line “Too weak for all her heart’s endeavour, […] from pride and vainer ties dissever” in which the Lover refers to Porphyria’s marriage and inability to leave such partnership. It also can (contextually) justify Othello’s rage and fury towards Desdemona’s suspected infidelity, as Othello’s wife would be regarded as a form of property, making Cassio guilty of theft as well as betrayal. This effect is exacerbated (most likely to Shakespeare’s intention) by the concept of a Cuckold, as this was seen as a shameful and undesirable title, effectively lowering a man’s status to that below a woman’s, and this would only further Othello’s uncertainty-induced wrath.

Browning and Shakespeare maintain different uses of device when exhibiting uncertainty’s debilitating effects on their respective protagonists. Ultimately however, as a narrative catalyst, uncertainty plays a virtually identical function as a tool for character progression (or in this instance, regression) and to advance the plot toward conflict. This trend can also be observed throughout the tragedy genre; plays such as Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth and Hamlet all exploit the chaotic catalyst of uncertainty to create discord and exploit dramatic irony for emotive effect. In summary, Browning and Shakespeare are among many others who utilise uncertainly to ‘wither’ protagonists’ resolve and steer the plotline toward a dubious end. Put simply, uncertainty in tragedy is the butterfly flapping its wings, ensuing the hurricane, and could be remarked as one of the most potent narrative devices a storyteller has in their arsenal.

In chapter 16 Harper Lee explores in greater depth the social intricacies of Maycomb county and its inhabitants through Scout’s tireless inquisition. The theme of tradition and the history of the land is elaborated on, especially within the Cunningham bloodline, who which according to Alexandra Finch are “respectable” due to the amount of time they have dwelled on the plot of land. Another example of identity belonging very much to attributes which are not related to conduct, personality or appearance is seen in Mr. X Billups, who’s parents were illiterate and through circumstance ended up giving him his peculiar name. This shows that personal identity is something very much lost in Maycomb, with people more concerned in preserving or living up to predisposed expectations conotated upon them by their surnames.

I was awoken by the searing pain of the ground pressed against my cheek. Quickly I arose. My feet failed me as I collapsed once again toward the ground as it gave way for me. It was after this I realised it was not the sole fault of my limbs that I had once again reaquainted myself with the earth, but that the earth itself had taken a degree of the blame. I was currently kneeling atop a dune of sand.

I caught a handful of grains to affirm this, the sand burned against my dry hands falling back whence it came. I squinted, permitting small cautious steps as I turned to inspect my surroundings to which alarmingly had very little to inspect; I remarked that I might as well stand atop any of these dunes as I would observe the exact same thing, oceans of sand stretching further than my eyes cared to glance and my legs cares to venture.

I tried my hardest to traverse the dune elegantly but found myself sliding rather than walking to its base. I squinted ahead of me, deciding that since I had no recollection of how I got here every direction held an equal chance of salvation, or indeed an equal chance of hopelessness. After scaling my third dune, there was little to mark my infinitesimal progress other than the shallow footprints I had left in my wake, my mind could muse only on how magnificently barren this aureate  wasteland was, and how much longer I could endure it. Beneath my feet there were no signs of life, no cacti, no insects nor desert foxes nor armadillos nor vultures harbinging my inevitable doom. Nothing. Nothing but me and a seabed lacking in a sea to provide for it.

This desert was distinctly prosaic, it shaped itself like a child trying to shape icing on a cake, however it now suddenly felt as it the candles had been lit. The disheartening symmetry of this sand prison seemed to have kept me in a feverish stupor, something I was dispelled from as I choked on the dry air; the signet of the midday sun. It had begun to feel as if the scorching flames were not only being toted upon my shoulders, but shone below me also, as if I was traversing a desert of mirrors the size of sand grains.

I felt the weight of my body as I trudged through the thick air that snaked around my visage, convecting in the midday sun. I felt the ground beneath me clinging to my footsteps, claiming what it knew was soon to be part of it. I had forgiven the desert for being so stark, I could not think of a single creature that would wish to share in this burning embrace. My legs once again failed me, and my eyes followed them. I admired the dazzling orange of the sun as it screamed at me from behind my eyelids, and its glow faded to black.

I awoke to a comparative haven of hospitality; the ground beneath me no longer burned, but kept a modest heat from the sun that had once tried to turn these lands into glass oceans. My eyes needed not to squint at I stared up at the sky now dyed fuchsia and midnight purple, the sun no longer bellowed its deafening roar but instead the night filled itself with another sound entirely; chirps of insects that sounded like crickets echoed between the basins of sand and the rustlings of animals filled me with hope. And the idea that I was not entirely alone inside the hourglass I have been confined to invigorated me, and made me resolute in surviving the sun’s return. I sat upright, retreating my hand toward my chest as I felt the tickle of an insect march across it, going about its business unmindfully. As I reinspected my surroundings, the once desolate desert had come to life now that the sands had become less punishing; ants patrolled their quarters, woodpeckers flittered overhead, and as my eyes adjusted to the dark, a silhouette of a ferret like creature could be made out in the distance clawing at the sand in search of something. The clicks and cries and scurries and chatters of the animals flowed amongst the amber valleys, filling the night air with life and my heart with promise of leaving this place.

In his article, Brand reflects on his interview with Jeremy Paxman, in which he is queried on his unorthodox political stance of complete abstinence from voting altogether. Brand believes the economic disparity between the rich and poor is something to be immediately addressed, however he also claims that the current political system is too flawed to warrant his attention. This suggests that this budding dissenter has very little understanding of how these two vital components of our society correlate; something that is concerning when considering how much support this man has elicited. Brand comments in the article that his interview was commended because he had “articulated what they” (presumably meaning the public who share his views) “were thinking”. This is perhaps true, but the points stated are nothing innovative, and have been articulated many times before. However, the main difference between Brand and those who have also spoken his views is the guileless manner in which he voiced his, and to an extent my own, views on the bizarre runnings of this country.

It is very easy to take up arms alongside Brand, especially when he talks of politicians such as Boris Johnson “simpering under a makeup brush” portraying a very vivid picture of the insincerity associated with politics.

As a person who is not yet allowed to vote, I am discouraged immensely as Brand gives his take on how “The only reason to vote is if the vote represents power or change. I don’t think it does.” And that “We deserve more from our democratic system than the few derisory tit-bits tossed from the carousel of the mighty when they hop a few inches left or right” the emotive language creates a feeling of being robbed of a functioning government, and more importantly one of powerlessness to change that. Brand’s emotive language is akin to that of propaganda in prose and in effect.

Brand’s article, while maintaining an aloof composure within his writing, makes very direct and serious arguments, calling democracy as a whole “irrelevant” and declaring “it is our responsibility of be more active if we want real change.” These rather contradictory statements occur in the very same paragraph. It seems that Brand encourages both passive protest of the government through abstinence and a simultaneous radical revolution. Or perhaps the more likely alternative that Brand wants an article to be agreeable to those dissatisfied with the government, of which there is a large amount, and one that will draw positive publicity to him. His opinionated oscillation makes his motives (likely intentionally) vague; acquiring a rally of support while saying very little that could condemn him in the eyes of those more conservative.

Brand also seems all too eager to place the blame solely on the politician’s shoulders, which in part is a fair verdict. It is undeniable that the governments acts have not been with the whole interest of the people they “serve” as Brand puts it, but as much as “it’s their job to be serious” it cannot be said that citizens have no responsibility for the country they live in. We’ve passively condoned their behavior for a multitude of reasons, perhaps the most difficult to come to terms with is that we are not so fervent in our dissatisfaction that it gives us cause for wanting change, let alone acting to create amendments in the near future. It seems that Brand, for a lack of a better word, preys upon this token desire for democratic amendment, but neither Brand nor his sympathisers have reform on their agendas.

I personally cannot say that Brand is incorrect in his political assertions. In my significantly shorter time on Earth than Brand and my even more significantly shorter time paying the remotest attention to politics. I have noticed very little change extending beyond a few cursory policies or the occasional passing of a mundane law. Certainly nothing similar to the change Brand envisions, but maybe perhaps that is the aspect of Brand’s argument I find strikes a chord; it’s just too perfect. With phrases like “If we all collude and collaborate together we can design a new system that makes the current one obsolete.” Preaching behind a laptop that “There are alternatives” causes me to doubt anything like genuine change entailing from this escapade when such naive statements are used. This seems evident to me that Brand is treating this more like an advertisement than a campaign for political reform, but I suppose that is to be expected from an article in a newspaper. It is just unnerving that someone who seems to desire change enough to write about it for the world to see, does in the same keystroke trivialise it in its entirety.

‘There is nowt wrong with slang’

 The article written by Belinda Webb argues that, as put rather obtusely by the title “there is nowt wrong with slang”. With specific regards to Emma Thompson who had started a campaign against the use of sloppy slang. The writer’s protest to the campaign is based half in personal attacks and half in fallacy. Belinda Webb is glorifying colloquialisms and their detrimental effects on the current generation’s articulacy; and this is what I will be responding to in this article.

“That epitome of Hampstead luvviness, Emma Thompson, has apparently started a campaign against the use of sloppy slang and street talk”. In the very first sentence Miss Webb has made a personal attack on someone because they are trying to promote articulation and urge teenagers to express themselves with a broader vocabulary. Great going. She then goes on to say “what’s to be expected from a Cambridge graduate?” Attempting to alienate Thompson because they have been accepted and then graduated from a prestigious university; so far Webb has proved nothing but envious resentment of those who are able to express themselves intelligibly.

Miss Webb continues to state “it [slang] demonstrates an inventiveness and quickness of thought…a language on the go, evolving not just from one generation to the next but from one year to the next.” The writer’s phrase ‘language on the go’ seems an apt description, as these colloquialisms are indeed, going. Their impermanence is staggeringly obvious, however there is no progression or ‘evolution’ as is said by Ms  Webb; these words are fleeting at best, and frivolous sub-communicatives at worst.

Belinda Webb then uses Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting to postulate that “British literature is served well by slang – it can energize prose.” This I am in agreement in with the writer; slang can indeed enrich our written and in some cases spoken language. However the over extolled slang that is borderline invasive of teenagers vocabulary is forcing out its etymological relatives for vapid and improper counterparts. Slang is an addition to the English language, not a replacement.

The sub title of the article is also something that particularly struck my attention, in which Belinda Webb chooses to write “Emma Thompson of all people ought to know that Shakespeare’s slang became part of our everyday language” this statement, of course, is true. However, Shakespeare was able to effectively and eloquently express himself using standard English, or in his case old English. His use of slang did not allow omittance of his vocabulary to accommodate such colloquialisms. There is also a strong tinge of hypocrisy in these words, as the writer implies that Emma Thompson “of all people” is knowledgeable of  slang and its applications throughout history. The writer states this while simultaneously arguing that no one person can judge whether colloquialisms are socially acceptable. It certainly appears that her argument holds little legitimate ground. And even less sensical.

“What Thompson et al may be put out at is feeling out of touch with the reality of this younger generation” This quote is one of her barrage of flawed sophisms that shook me the most. Not only is it another personal attack on Thompson, reducing Webb’s argument back into the realms of uneducated squabble, but it is also offensive to this “younger generation”. Webb is generalizing the entirety of the current teenage generation, but implying that colloquialisms are our “reality”. If Miss Webb is in any way fighting for the empowerment of the teenage age group, she has certainly done quite the opposite. Webb also states that “They [teenagers] may not consciously know this is what they are doing but they are seeking a language that represents their reality, and a way of creating a private space for those with whom they identify.” This quote is one I find the most encompassing of Webb’s opinions on slang; that is is something to be revered and encouraged, which in some cases is very true, and slang can be used to create literary masterpieces, but the “reality” is that this simply is not happening. Those using slang on a daily basis will quite unsurprisingly use it to talk about things they would discuss on a daily basis; it is not quite the catalyst for a language revolution that Webb depicts it as.

The writers tumultuous babble appears to wane into reason and humility toward the end, with her closing statement that of “I am not saying language is a substitute for “standard” English, but it should be recognised and capitalised for what it is – a love of communication of and inventiveness of speech…” Which is indeed agreeable, however Webb still continues to greatly romanticize slang and its modern application to language; perhaps we could encourage the youth to creatively incorporate colloquialisms into language as Shakespeare did if we gave the current generation the articulation to do so, just as Shakespeare did. Then perhaps, Miss Webb’s asinine glorification of modern slang would perhaps seem less sophistic.

Children who play videogames are more violent

 First of all; no. This is one of the most frustrating assumptions to me, largely because it makes no logical sense; would you blame a game of lazer tag for promoting war? Or wine gums for encouraging alcoholism in teens? No you wouldn’t. Because it’s ridiculous to accuse an inanimate object for the decisions of a sentient human being.

 It is, for the most part, an opinion of parents who want to protect their children from “harmful” media. But in reality they are digging themselves a larger hole; the more they try and place their kids in a cellophane bubble, the more fervent they will be in their inevitable escape. Kids are naturally curious. So what happens when you take away their access to answers? They find other ways of accessing it. The parents have in fact left their children ill prepared for the reality that will meet them when they become independent. To me, at least, this seems more like a disservice than any form of protection.

 That’s not to say that at a young age media does not have the ability to influence a child’s philosophies and values, but a parent blaming a video game for their child growing up to be a serial killer? That’s inexcusable. It seems we have forgotten who truly has the most influence of their child; the parent. If they have not brought their child up with enough intelligence to know the difference between Call of Duty and real life then they may want to consider not producing any more offspring.

 So to conclude, using video games as scapegoats for poor parenting is inexpiable. A violent child is the produce of poor morals taught by bad parental figures, not Super Mario, not Battlefield 4 and not fucking Angry Birds. Age ratings suggest our minds are like sponges, perhaps they are, but not empty ones. We are all, and I mean  all capable of deciphering the difference between a Kill-streak and a Mass murder. Maybe it’s time to give the next generation a chance to truly and freely be the next generation and not a carbon copy of the previous one.

In chapter 12 Scout and Jem are invited to Sunday Church at First Purchase, Calpernia’s regular place of worship. The strong sense of community (to the degree of borderline segregation of the Caucasian population if Maycomb) is seen in Lula, the well known trouble maker within their congregation. Scout remarks that the graveyard behind the church is more colourful and “happy cemetary” and is interested in the call and response manner that their hymns are sung in. Chapter 12 also gives insight into the social contracts of Church-going seen when Reverend Sykes shames a member of the community for not attending, and prevents the mass from leaving until enough donations were collected. Harper Lee seems to draw attention to the contrasts in the white and black communities and their attitude to worship, and forming the more genuinely and honest congregation that Scout has been introduced to.

Atticus is a very influential character in Mockingbird, Scout percieces her father as a very bland and uninspiring figure when placed in comparison with her peer’s parents. In chapter 10 however Scouts opinion of Atticus is revised when her father shoots dead the ‘mad dog’ that was found roaming around Maycomb. Jem remarks that the fluidness and ease that Atticus handles the rifle unsettling as prior to this Jem’s father claims to not enjoy or be interested in guns. Jem and scout also discover their father’s nickname of ‘One-shot’ in reference to his unnaturally accurate aim, this is also a source of tension in the chapter as this was previously unhead of from Jem and Scout’s perspective.

Chapter 9 explores the underlying sense of hubris in the Finch family. This is seen most crudely in Scout, when provoked by her cousin, Francis who called her father a “Nigger lover” in reference to Scouts father, Atticus defending a Black man accused of a crime by the Ewes family. This causes Scout to lose her composure and attack Francis, and almost immediately is caught and punished. An excess in pride is also seen in Francis, who critisizes Atticus as he himself believes (or is simply reiterating an opinion of his parents or grandparents) that Atticus is shaming the family, and his pride urges him to process this.

Even Atticus’ actions are the product of his pride preventing him from refusing to take on the case of Tom Robinson even though it was socially frowned upon by everyone in the town of Maycomb, including the judiciary committee, making the case extremely hard to win.