Alex's English Journal

Aron the Moor begins this act with a long soliloquy. In this, he praises Tamora for her current position as empress, saying that she is powerful and safe: ‘Now climbeth Tamora Olympus’ top/Safe out of fortune’s shot, and sits aloft,’
He then reveals that his plans involving her are malicious; that he will rise to power as Tamora is madly in love with him. ‘To mount aloft with thy imperial mistress….Hast prisoner held, fett’red in amorous chains’.

His soliloquy is then interrupted by Chirron and Demitrius (Tamora’s sons) who are quarrelling over the love of Lavinia (Titus’s daughter). Demetrius uses his age against Chirron, saying that he is older and therefore more deserving of Lavinia, to which Chirron retorts by saying ‘I am as able and as fit as thou’, and by saying that he is better and should therefore get Lavinia.
Aron sees the argument as an advantage for him to exploit, and interrupts the two brothers, asking if she would really love two boys that she had never met such as themselves. He then persuades them help him in a plot against Titus, essentially telling them to rape Lavinia in a forrest where the hunt was taking place.
‘And many unfrequented plots there are/Fitted by kind for rape and villainy/Single you thither then this dainty doe/And strike her home by force, if not by words’. The brothers both agree.

The figurative language used by Aron in his soliloquy at the beginning of act 2 scene 1 suggests much about Aron’s character and motives.
“Now climbeth Tamora Olympus’ top/Safe out of fortune’s shot, and sits aloft,” Within the opening line, Aron has already used metaphor to show that Tamora has risen to have unrivalled power, and is safe from any harm that she may come across. This gives the impression that Aron’s character is strong and loyal two the person he loves. However, as he progresses through his soliloquy, is true character is dramatically revealed with the lines:
“To mount aloft with thy imperial mistress/Hast prisoner held, fett’red in amorous chains/And faster bound to Aaron’s charming eyes/Than is Prometheus tied to Caucasus.” Aron’s character here is revealed to be one that is manipulative, conceitful and has no outward care for others. He shows the audience that his intentions are to make Tamora fall in love with him, and thereby bring him into power. Tamora has is already deeply in love with him- the lines “Hast prisoner held, fett’red in amorous chains” show that she is his prisoner, held by chains of love. He goes so far as to say that she is bound to his eyes as was Prometheus tied to Caucasus (in Greek mythology, Prometheus was chained to Caucasus, one of the pillars holding up the earth, for eternity as a punishment by the greek gods. On the other hand, there are no clear motives behind Aron’s scheming, aside from self benefit and his hunger for power.
The subtle use of 3rd person in the line “Then, Aaron, arm thy heart, and fit thy thoughts” shows that despite being the representative ‘evil’ and ‘greed’ in Titus Andronicus, Aron is self-conscience; by saying this steeling himself against whatever may happen. This backs up the audiences impression of him being malicious and idolises himself.

Question: What does the figurative language that Aron uses in his soliloquy at the beginning of act 2 scene 1 suggest to us about his underlying motives in the play?

I will be bright….quote
3rd person – idolises himself

Emperor of Rome dies. Titus Andronicus (a general returned from the war) is told to be emporer. He says NO! Emperors sons (Saterninus and Basianus). fight over emperor. Titus says Saterninus (elder) should be emporor, who takes Lavinia (Titus’s daughter) as his bride. However Basianus (other son) runs away with her. Titus kills one of his sons in an argument for helping her. Saterninus then marries Tamorra, who is the queen of the goths and a captive of Titus from his war campaign. Titus also killed one of her sons in front of her. As the empress, Tamorra says to Titus that she forgives him for killing her son, but aside she says to Saterninus that she will get her revenge.
End of act 1.

In both articles information is present about members of the Conservative party giving a letter to Mr.Cameron asking him to delay the passing of a bill legalising same-sex marriage. Both articales share that the letter was delivered by hand to No.10 Downing Street, and state that the date they wanted to postpone the bill until were the next elections, in 2015. Finally, in both cases the conservatives mentioned were high up in the hierarchy.

Unique for the artical by Juliette Jowit was the fact that the passing of the bill would cause at most a 1% loss in support, whereas the other artical states that ‘members of the party were leaving in droves in protest’. Additionally, the first artical I mentioned stated that there were 22 signatures on the letter, but the second had only 20.
Reasons for this could be that the second artical rounded the number down, or that the first article ‘made up’ the second value to sound correct.

Neither of the articales are unbiased. In the artical by Juliette Jowit, the bias is shown towards the passing of the bill legalising same sex marriage. Evidence is found showing this in the first paragraph, ‘the conservative grassroots rebellion…’ The word ‘rebellion’ makes the reader think that they are in the minority against the whole, projecting their subjective position for same sex marriage. Additionally, both articles use selective facts to show their position on the subject. For example, the first article gives a precice value for the loss in votes, ‘less than 1%’, whereas the second article states that people are’leaving in hordes’. The second article makes the reader think that the impact of legalising same sex marriage would be much higher for the Conservative party, projecting their subjective position as against. In both cases, the use of an image has majorly biased the news article one way or the other. In the article of same sex marriage, there is the image of two hands clasped around each other. This appeals to the emotional side of the reader, as they assume that both of the hands are two men, strengthening the position as for same sex marriage.

Roost
A short story inspired by ‘Hawk Roosting’, a poem by Ted Hughes.
You sit on top of the world, your eyes closed; your thoughts are, for this instant, calm. Aloft above the clashing turmoil of the inner city, you stop, and are at peace. The moment passes, and you’re back to the distortion, clouds of smoke belching out of the factory chimneys, the bland cityscape stretching endlessly as far as the eye can perceive. A barren landscape broken only by the occasional skyscraper piercing through the grey; beautiful analogue shapes among the digital metronomic concrete blocks.
But none so beautiful nor so high as where I reside. I have reached the pinnacle, the top, having risen all the way with the sun behind me. You may question the circumstances bringing me here, putting you in the same boat as countless journalists; ‘From the very bottom to the very top?’, ‘How could someone so insignificant have become so influential?’ Or even, if you were to read the daily street-rags calling themselves ‘newspapers’, selling only to the poorest, ‘Jason ‘Roost’ Drake: highest, from the lowest of the low?’. Touché. But that is in my past, a long time ago. My rise to power took the world by surprise, catching them unaware, the path of my flight direct to the top. They were not ready for me then, and perhaps they never will be. I am a god, my importance surpassing all mere mortals, living in my sky-high heaven; omnipotent due to money and omniscient thanks to thousands of cameras installed throughout my empire. But how did this all come about? All will be revealed…

15 YEARS EARLIER
A young man, no more than seventeen, slipped out of the alleyway, seeming to shy away from the light. Pale nostrils breathed puffs of steam, his slim shoulders sagging inside his crumpled overcoat. He set off at a light jog towards the distant market, the billboards flashing out at him as he passed. The air, thick and smoggy, clung around him, creating patches of darkness and shadow despite the sun’s futile attempts to break through the dense cloud layer. Which suited him fine. His skin had become oversensitive, clammy during those long days underground and even the gentle half-light of the city caused him pain.
***
I slowed to a walk; people were beginning to appear, and I needed them to earn my living. Pickpocketing was dishonest; I hated it, but it was the only way I could scrape a living. I had tried all other methods, even stooped to begging, but none were as effective. This was not how I should be living. Inside me, a knotted ball of pent up rage formed, built of hopelessness and poverty. I grimaced, and steeling myself for my first target; a fat technocrat singled out from the whole. If the man had looked down, he would have seen a slight hand dip through each of his pockets, removing all items from about his person. But he didn’t. They never did. I only took enough to keep me going, never ‘borrowing’ more than a few times a day; a man has his honour to keep. A wallet, fat with notes. A phone. A travel card, dated three days ago. A security pass. An odd chunk of motherboard. Some loose change. They would keep me going for a while; the money could be spent, the phone sold for parts, and the hardware would fetch a good price in the markets underground, despite me not knowing what it did. They would do for now.

Roost
A short story inspired by ‘Hawk Roosting’, a poem by Ted Hughes.

You sit on top of the world, your eyes closed; your thoughts are, for this instant, calm. Aloft above the clashing turmoil of the inner city, you stop, and are at peace. The moment passes, and you’re back to the distortion, clouds of smoke belching out of the factory chimneys, the bland cityscape stretching endlessly as far as the eye can perceive. A barren landscape broken only by the occasional skyscraper piercing through the grey; beautiful analogue shapes among the digital metronomic concrete blocks.
But none so beautiful nor so high as where I reside. I have reached the pinnacle, the top, having risen all the way with the sun behind me. You may question the circumstances bringing me here, putting you in the same boat as countless journalists; ‘from the very bottom to the very top?’, ‘how could someone so insignificant have become so influential?’ Or even, if you were to read the daily street-rags calling themselves ‘newspapers’, selling only to the poorest, ‘Jason ‘ Roost’ Drake: highest, from the lowest of the low?’. Touché. But that is in my past, a long time ago. My rise to power took the world by surprise, catching them unaware, the path of my flight direct to the top. They were not ready for me then, and perhaps they never will be. I am a god, my importance surpassing all mere mortals, living in my sky-high heaven; omnipotent due to money and omniscient thanks to my thousands of cameras install throughout my empire. But how did this all come about? All will be revealed…

15 YEARS EARLIER
A young man, no more than seventeen, slipped out of the alleyway, seeming to shy away from the light. Pale nostrils breathed puffs of steam, and his slim shoulders sagging inside his crumpled overcoat. He set off at a light jog towards the distant market, the billboards flashing out at him as he passed. The air, thick and smoggy, clung around him, creating patches of darkness and shadow despite the suns futile attempts to break through the dense could layer. Which suited him fine. His skin had become oversensitive, clammy during those long days underground and even the gentle half-light of the city caused him pain.
I slowed to a walk; people were beginning to appear, and I needed them to earn my living. Pickpocketing was dishonest; I hated it, but it was the only way I could just scrape a living. I had tried all other methods, even stooped to begging, but none were affective. This was not how I should be living. I grimaced, and steeling myself for my first target; a fat technocrat singled out from all groups. If the man had looked down, he would have seen a slight hand dip through each of his pockets, thoroughly removing all items about his person. But he didn’t. They never did. I only took enough to keep me going; a man has his honour to keep.

Roost
A story inspired by the poem, ‘Hawk Roosting’

View the ground from up here. Below me, the ground stretches endlessly in all directions, a barren landscape of drab outhouses, broken by the occasional skyscraper. The day to day battle, a percentage so slim, but I was here. I reside in the revered top floor, an oasis of safety among the storm of the city, the highest and the best; omnipotent and omniscient. But how did he do this, they ask. From the very bottom, to the very top? A sewer boy simply shouldn’t become the top. Touché. But the one path of my flight is direct, upwards. The sun is behind me, I sit in the tallest tree, and plan to keep things like this.

I soared through the void, suspended by seemingless nothing. I hung, with minimal effort, in the sky. I serveyed the barren ground, scrutinising it for the meerest sign of life.