Grimms' Fairy Tales Production by the Guildford Shakespeare Company

“Once upon a time”. Four words which never fail to prick up the ears of anyone nearby. The promise of a journey spanning countries and generations, an escape from the surrounding world to the realm of fantasy, a beckoning call to the imagination of all, both young and old. The start of a story, and who doesn’t love a good story?

In 1812, Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm published Kinder und Hausmarchen, a collection of 152 tales, in the central German town of Kassel. An 1857 revised edition, the last in their lifetime, would increase that number to 211. By the beginning of the 20^th Century, Kinder und Hausmarchen, or Grimms’ Fairy Tales to us, was the second best-selling book in Germany. Only beaten by? The Bible. Now, 204 years after the brothers unknowingly created a legacy which would travel far beyond the outskirts of their sleepy German town and the span of their own lives, the Guildford Shakespeare Company brings the immortal essence of their tales to the Challengers’ Field in Guildford.

The production brings to life ten tales, mixing classics with the lesser-known to celebrate the variety and flair inherent in the collection. Rather than rattle them off one after the other, however, the team presents an ingenious approach; the stories come and go seamlessly, blending into one another as the layers of story-telling form an intricate web of artistic prowess. Arguably more impressive is the achievement of the sensitive balance of ‘feel-good’ appeal (singing, dancing and humorous moments) and dramatic quality necessary to do justice to the eerie, sinister undertones of the fairy tales.

Although props are used, the style leans on the minimalist, which makes the immersive nature of the production all the more stunning. The way in which the audience can be so absorbed in a re-enactment of ‘Rapunzel’ on a flat stage, with only a few blocks of wood vaguely resembling thorns, and long piece of rope brandished when the knight proclaims “Rapunzel! Rapunzel! Let down your hair!”, is a credit to the staging and acting ability on show.

The overall ambiance complements that of the traditional European feel of the tales perfectly. The production is set in a Spiegeltent (Mirror Tent) erected in a corner of Stoke Park. The Mirror Tent comes from the early 20^th Century Low Countries and was originally used as a mobile dance and performance hall. Historically, its moveable nature only permitted candles, not electric lights, and so the interior lighting is amplified by mirrored-walls. Coupled with the intimate circular-seating around the central stage, the atmosphere is cosy and lively, an ideal setting for a production of Grimms’ Fairy Tales.

Those bottles of wine were most definitely not mine...

The company provides the chance to sit in a booth with a cheese board and bottle of wine. This is a nice touch as it combines the feeling of going out to see a live production with the comforts and hint of luxury normally reserved for staying at home. Once again, it is clear that the production has been tastefully thought-through, as this enhances the appeal of traditional entertainment and showmanship, a slightly different concept to theatre.

On until the 30^th October, the Guildford Shakespeare Company’s production of Grimms’ Fairy Tales is an admirably ambitious effort to bring something unusual to the stage. It is also an exceptionally successful one. A great way to celebrate the group’s decennial anniversary, this is also a great way to spend a dark, autumnal evening. Step into the Mirror Tent, step back in time, and step into the tales – they might have taken place “once upon a time”, but they live on in the present, vivacious as ever, as an everlasting part of human essence.

LNAT, MCB and Mosul

Recently, I have been practising past LNAT essays to prepare for my own admissions test coming up on 2nd November. I am not sitting the LNAT, but the essay part of the AMES test is very similar to that of the LNAT. This blog will include an essay I wrote. Ignore grammatical sloppiness (on an even higher level than normal) as the time pressure in this exam is very, very real.

The last one I wrote was -"We must be prepared to sacrifice our traditional liberties to defeat terrorism" - a fascinating question and one relevant both to my course and current affairs. Yesterday, news broke that the Muslim Council of Britain (MCB) is going to release an anti-radicalisation programme to rival the government's existing Prevent programme. In addition to this, there is of course the ongoing assault on Mosul, one of ISIS's last and largest territories. Experts have widely suggested that, when the group loses this major city in its self-professed caliphate, there will be a shift in the nature of their efforts. In light of their dwindling base, from which to launch a military campaign in the Middle East, more terrorist attacks in the west are predicted, much like a wounded animal flailing its limbs desperately in the moment of its imminent demise. Whilst the approaching possibility of a deep wound in the organisation's heart is a positive development, it will also make efforts to combat radicalisation, and future terrorist attacks, all the more urgent. Underneath is the essay I wrote, which includes an outline of how we might assure that we accomplish this vital mission.

“We must be prepared to sacrifice traditional liberties to defeat terrorism”

This question is one which has become increasingly relevant in recent times with the rise of terrorist acts against western powers. It fundamentally pivots on a debate between our liberties (such as the Freedom of Speech) and our safety, and whether the former jeopardises the latter in the current climate. If this were the case, it would be a simple choice to make that the sacrifice of our liberties must be made to defeat terrorism. In reality, however, the act of increasing protection from terrorist acts is not the same as defeating terrorism. The debate over traditional liberties is therefore not as fundamental in the task of eradicating this threat as the statement presupposes.

Much is made of the conflict between western ideals of social liberties and the prevention of future terrorist attacks. On the one hand, some argue that restricting the Freedom of Speech for Muslim preachers suspected (but not proven) to be radicalising, or preventing the wearing of provocative Islamic dress (eg the niqab) would serve to limit the potential for extremism and extremist-driven attacks on home-soil. On the other hand, advocates of liberalism argue that this would amount to a concession that our values are being defeated; instead, we must hold true to them and reject the terror that these acts aim to produce.

The primary responsibility of government, however, is to protect its people and ensure their safety. The protection of lives is surely more important than the maintenance of traditional liberties. A dramatic reductio ad absurdum scenario to prove this would be as follows: would a country in which all the people were killed in terrorist attacks, in the name of upholding their rights, be preferable to a country where every life is protected at the expense of all of their liberties? Whilst neither situation is desirable, the second is clearly more so than the first. Thus, a government ought to prioritise protecting its people over maintaining the sanctity of their rights.

This would provide a satisfactory response to the statement “we must be prepared to sacrifice traditional liberties to prevent terrorist acts”. This, however, is not the task at hand. To decide whether the benefits of relinquishing liberal values in defeating terrorism outweighs the sacrifice, an understanding of how terrorism can be defeated is necessary.

Although producing a blueprint of this kind is no easy feat, as each specific war with each specific terrorist group is different, broadly there are three necessary steps to ‘defeating terrorism’: rout them out in their own territories; work with local powers to strangle them and prevent regional survival in a cohesive effort; defeat/undermine their ideology. The importance of step one is obvious in that, without military pressure on the group’s supplies, forces or leadership, they are free to perpetuate their acts at will. The importance of step two is seen in the absence of its application regarding ISIS, which was aided in its early years by the Gulf and Pakistani funding of Wahhabism. Without working with these regional powers, the West was unsuccessful in preventing its growth into a potent force. The third step is the ultimate, and perhaps hardest goal, essentially the ‘nail in the coffin’ action. In defeating the ideology, the beliefs which drive radicalisation and recruitment become extinct, and the wasps’ nest dies.

It is now apparent that, of the three steps to defeating terrorism, only one is relevant to home-soil ‘traditional liberties’; foreign military intervention and regional cooperation do not implicate the need to sacrifice these liberties. The suggestion in the statement of such a sacrifice’s centrality to efforts against terrorism is misleading. Its importance is only relevant to the step of defeating their ideology.

The question, then, is whether we could defeat terrorism whilst upholding our traditional liberties. A better way of asking this is as follows: would sacrificing our traditional liberties be an act of surrendering to the illiberal views of terrorism? If so, then it is imperative to uphold them obdurately in order to prove their superiority to those of our foes. To stand tall in the face of such danger, and permit Freedom of Speech, Dress, and Belief, could amount to a rejection of the threatening ideology and rob it of its impact and support. In seeing that their assault on western society, and its foundational values, is drawing a blank, they will be starved of propaganda victories and morale, the very effect which their attacks aim to have on us.

This stance, however, is predicated on the assumption that restricting social liberties (in order to improve the safety of civilians), symbolises an admission of their inferiority and so prevents the conquering of terrorist ideology. It seems a strange assertion to make that nationwide limits to preaching hatred, or searching the internet without state observation, would single-handedly perpetuate the belief that all non-Muslims must die, as well as the constant stream of converts to this belief. Surely such measures would only aggravate already-radicalised Muslims? All other Muslims, who are just as opposed to terrorist beliefs, and indeed just as at risk to their actions, would benefit from and support such protective measures. The notion that such limits to the liberties of the whole nation stand in the way of defeating terrorism is therefore a flawed one.

Indeed, the real risk for further radicalisation presents itself in the persecution, either by state or the public, of Muslims. Discriminatory treatment of Muslims, simply because they are Muslims, turns them towards radicalisation, or at least newfound sympathy for the terrorist mentality. It is, therefore, not the sacrifice of liberties which risks perpetuating terrorism, but the excessive restriction of these liberties to a targeted group of society.

After assessment, it is now clear that the statement, expressing the need to sacrifice traditional liberties to defeat terrorism, is somewhat misleading, but ultimately accurate. Western society could defeat terrorism by upholding all of its western values, which would represent a rejection of terrorist ideals and a refusal to bow down to their will. Such resistance, however, would come at a cost – namely that of future terrorist attacks which are, to an extent, made more likely by these very traditional liberties. This would be negligent to the state’s number one priority to its citizens: their protection. It is also clear that sacrificing these liberties would not hold back the effort against terrorism as some fear it would. The real hindrance to this is posed by indiscriminate persecution of all Muslims. Thus, to strike a balance between an effective endeavour to defeat terrorism, and enforce civilian safety as best as possible, we must be prepared to sacrifice some traditional liberties.

The Brexit Bog

It is representative of the continual disarray surrounding the Brexit fallout that, on the day after a parliamentary debate ended with broad agreement that there would be no vote in the Houses on triggering Article 50, a legal case began challenging this very notion.

In addition to the rather farcical nature of this turn of events, it also reflects badly on the British political elite's competence, especially vis-a-vis the generally consensual tone emanating from the members of the EU bloc: in the words of Donald Tusk, there is only one option - "hard Brexit or no Brexit".

But, ignoring this patent lack of direction (or, to put it in the less mild words of a friend of mine, "any bloody clue"), still on show almost 4 months after the referendum, the main source of my frustration is the very real risk that democracy is to be brazenly undermined by those whom we trust with upholding it. In baying for the necessity of parliamentary approval of Article 50, MPs claim the right to control and monitor the very general will from which their power and privileges derive.

I wrote an article spelling out my views on this threat, which was published in 'The London Economic'. I hope I am not the only one who feels alarmed as these state of affairs develop.

Article on Dubai's economic strength during the current oil slump resulting from Sheikh Mohammed's Vision

In September I went to Dubai. One day, on a tour of the emirate, including a visit to Sharjah and Fujairah, its neighbouring emirates, I was struck by the modernising projects going on all around. One place in Fujairah in particular - the port of Dibba - was striking. It was an immense undertaking which had literally just finished when I went there and, gazing out at the blue sea, glittering with a million diamonds in the midday sun, you could hear the an incessant, desultory sound, like plastic flapping in the wind. Wondering what it was, I drew my eyes away from the Gulf of Oman and looked around me. The long, orderly row of streetlamps were so new, their protective wrapping had not even yet been taken off them.

Back home, I could not get this image out of my head, and was eager to look into the exact nature of the Dubai project. Everyone has vague ideas of it being something of a Middle Eastern Las Vegas - a playhouse of the rich, materialistic, and narcissistic - but this image of mercantile expansion at Dibba hinted at more profound and important ambitions being realised and funneled feverishly in the region.

I therefore read Sheikh Mohammed's "My Vision: Challenges in the Race for Excellence" which he wrote in 2006, setting out an astoundingly bold and pioneering plan for the emirate. Reading it, it was not longer before one question formed in my mind and kept returning as I turned the pages: 10 years on, how is this dream faring? Much reading and research later, I wrote an article on exactly this topic, which can be found in 'The London Economic'. The link is underneath.

http://www.thelondoneconomic.com/tle-pick/is-the-current-oil-slump-exposing-concrete-evidence-of-the-realisation-of-dubais-ambitious-vision/03/10/

Monet’s Impressionism and Man’s Attraction to Less

A few months ago I went to the Royal Academy to see the ‘Monet to Matisse: The Modern Garden’ exhibition. I am far less knowledgeable about art than literature and history yet, despite that, and perhaps because of it, I thoroughly enjoy going to the occasional gallery. With literature, my prior-knowledge creates expectations which hone contextual understanding but also narrow the wider experience. A concept which Nassim Taleb coined the ‘narrative fallacy’ in The Black Swan, our eagerness to squeeze everything into a logical story means that fundamental parts of the whole are overlooked and neglected. When it comes to art, however, I approach it with such a blank canvass (that’s a pun) that my mind is more open as a result. In knowing less, I see more.

That does not mean that I bury my head in the sand and refuse to read or listen to any context behind the paintings. For those with a grasp similar to the one that I had of the movement which came to force in Paris in the 1880s (in other words, non-existent), a brief introduction:

Recalcitrant in the established art world of the 19^th Century, the Impressionists (Monet, Renoir, Pissarro, et cetera) focused not on reflecting the image as seen in nature as accurately as possible, but on highlighting the movement of light and passing of time’s synthesis with colour. In effect, it was a latent form of abstract, as the painters distorted what they saw to emphasise how they thought and felt. This description does little justice to their work, so underneath is an example of the temporal expression for which they strived:

At first it was enough just to stand back and observe their work. For someone that contemplates the task of drawing a dog as an infliction of severest misery, the way in which their myriad brushstrokes come together to resemble something familiar, but not quite, to reflect landscapes as I know them, but not quite, to show the passage of time on unchanging paper, but not quite, was mesmerising.

Given my previous studies of literature, however, this unscrutinising state of observation did not last long. Despite Taleb’s admonishing warnings, I relapsed into the narrative fallacy of analysis and searched for the story behind the work in front of me. What could I latch on to in order to aid my understanding of the movement itself, rather than each individual painting? ‘Movement’ connotes change, or evolution, and I wanted to find it. What had progressed (or perhaps regressed?) between Monet’s first 1880 Impressionist pieces and his final paintings of the water lilies and willows during the Great War?

It is true that the Impressionists’ work reflected the world around them in a literal manner far less than that of the ‘conventional’ artists of the time. In sharpening attention on concepts (such as time, colour) they increasingly turned to the symbolic, often reducing emphasis on detail and surroundings. They deconstructed the whole to focus on individual elements, much like a contemporary (and clichéd) chef might deconstruct a lemon meringue to highlight the flavour of fruit. And this is what we see as the movement progressed through the years, evermore intrepid ventures into the abstract simplification of raw ideas. During the First World War, for example, Monet found cathartic solace by portraying overwhelming grief through the mournful deportment of willow trees.

                                                                           

I quickly began to realise that the more potent the emotion behind the symbolically deconstructive distortion of reality, the further these select artists moved into the abstract. Perhaps the most stunning of all was Monet’s final major work, the Grandes Decorations, a triptych wall painting of the eponymous water lilies, which he painted for and donated to the people of France during this time of great suffering.

But, as I continued to ruminate on this idea, I began to wonder whether it was such a novelty in the first place. My studies of literature revealed recognisable trends in that field; there was a simultaneous literary impressionist movement pioneered by the likes of Baudelaire, in which the reader’s vision of the plotline is blurred by the characters’ subjective and incomplete narrative. The similarities with the artists are clear. The appeal to writers of breaking down elements is recurrent, especially in the last few centuries; we see it in postmodern works (think of Nabokov’s ‘Signs and Symbols’, or Ezra Pound’s ‘In a Station of the Metro’, an effort to condense a worldly experience into just 14 words) which caught Derrida’s attention and eventually caused him to devise his deconstructionism literary criticism.

It seems that humans feel an inexorable attraction to challenge what is integral, and what is superfluous. The ability (or need, even) to purify renders down our experiences and, in doing so, amplifies ideas and emotion. The result is an even more powerful communication of our existence. And is that not the purpose of art, after all?

Review of 'Bleak House'

Boasting a formidable 989 pages, Bleak House sat perched on my bookshelf for a long while, difficult to begin. Admittedly, at times, it was more difficult to finish, hour-long reading stints leaving an unnoticeable difference in the girth of remaining pages. Even more difficult than that is trying to find a unique angle on Dickens’ 1853 tour de force from which to write a review, or indeed anything, which hasn’t already been repeated to exhaustion in 150 years of analysis. (Geocriticism, anyone?) But what will prove most difficult of all will be endeavouring to scratch the surface of doing this tome any justice in a poxy review. It has been coined “sprawlingly ambitious” by Paul Gent in his review for the Telegraph, the opinion thereof clearly admiring the workload taken up by Dickens. Conversely, a peer into the slightly less venerable domain of internet comments sections found a rather differing conclusion from an Anon whose preferred summation was “intolerably long-winded”. Broadly, I would side with Gent on this one, as Dickens does manage to stay on the right side of entropy and produce a coherent piece, which is no mean-feat given the complexity of plots, sub-plots and side-plots. Nor does condemning the length and pace of this novel suggest adequate consideration of how the author released parcels of chapters in monthly instalments through 1853 and 1854, which would have negated any contemporary impression of (excessive) length. That said, I would fall short of lauding Bleak House as the apotheosis of Dickens’ artistic talent; there were some memorable turns of phrase, as ever with a Dickensian read, such as the elaborated description of Tom-All-Alone’s in Chapter 46, but ultimately there are some identifiable flaws, and characters came and went, and came back again (sometimes) on a basis too frequent for my preference for tighter structure.

A 'bleak house', of which the adjective's corporeality metaphorically represents the ethereal nature of its counterpart

As the ‘Jarndyce Against Jarndyce’ lawsuit forms the kernel of all proceedings, it is unsurprising that many have seen Bleak House as a vitriolic excoriation of contemporary legal practice in England. Indeed, the third-person narrator (thus the voice most tainted by the author’s own prejudice) damningly countenances that “The one great principle of the English Law is to make business for itself”. Such egregious self-perpetuation is the keynote of the law theme throughout, manifested through Richard’s physical and mental decline, symbolic of the parasitic courts imbibing the life-force from their milieu. But perhaps this is most severe when superimposed on Dickens’ allusion to the indefatigable bulwark of legality in Victorian England. Kenge’s broken record-player profusion harking the ‘great system’ and ‘prosperous community…very prosperous community’ of the law is more than insubstantial equivocation in the author’s opinion as its tenet is bolstered on many occasions: Vholes’ depiction as a voracious financial black hole, the case’s subsumption of all which dares to go near it, Sir Leicester and Mr Boythorn’s stagnant reliance on lawyers. The impotence of law, for Dickens, is made all-the-more insidious by its deep-rooted vicegrip on society, upheld by generations of precedent and embedded firmly in our shared psyche. Whilst ‘Jarndyce Against Jarndyce’ is obviously instigator of most of the novel’s misery, a much larger and unsettling point is being promulgated, pertaining to the unassailable destructiveness of the courts of law.

As well as taking up this imposing task of dismembering Victorian law’s mighty reputation, Dickens does not waver in his trademark assault on the 19^th Century’s ferruginous social topography. Most obvious of this is the somewhat pigeonholing of the aristocracy through the Deadlock family; the ennui of Lady Deadlock resulting from an idle life of financial security; the rapaciously gossamer loyalty of their cousins; Sir Leicester’s paranoia about the ‘floodgates of society’ bursting open. Unsubtle juxtaposition with Jo’s or Jenny’s abject poverty assumes vociferation of a call for domestic reform and an end to inequality. This is not, however, something which would have warranted almost 1000 pages to propound, and so is rightly sidelined by the other issues revolving around the lawsuit, and other points of interest which make the novel more than just another Dickensian social criticism.

My most rapturous moments whilst reading Bleak House were sparked not by profound themes nor plot subtleties, but in the minutiae of Dickens’ writing style and devices. Names, for example, form an integral semiotic role; divinely anonymous nod to Latinate etymology through Nemo’s name endows a sense of satisfaction to the more perspicacious reader, whilst the banal monosyllabism of ‘Jo’, and its surreptitious allusion, is within the grasp of all, classical background or not. Even ‘Jarndyce Against Jarndyce’s’ risibly mundane title resounds impossibly throughout the novel, reflecting the futile nature of its rectification. Dickens is at his best when he is in firm control over the characters and their humanity, their actions and their consequences, as it is in these moments that he most artfully applies his Minervan hand. Esoteric references are also always received gratefully, such as that which forms the basis of Julia Armfield’s thesis, which analyses the authorial morsels of nebulous details and then pencils ‘smallpox’ above Esther’s severe illness. This compelling reading points to a potential warning against those who may have wished to neglect the recently legislated Compulsory Vaccination Act by presenting the infelicitous reality of one illness which the law would combat. It is impressive that Dickens, whilst wrestling to maintain control of the swathe of plotlines weaving in and out, ever combining and fracturing, also dedicates time and care to the inclusion of such minor allusions and supplementary niceties which, in this reviewer’s opinion, is what elevates the novel beyond the unremarkable.

One irritant which emerged early on in the novel, and one which Dickens never managed to convince me on, was the absurdly ‘proper’ deportment of Esther. Her narrated chapters read like a contemporary handbook on self-amelioration and social conduct, and, even when she purports to be confessional, one can never dismiss the inkling that everything is covered by a layer of Victorian propriety which tarnishes Miss Summerson’s role as an integral character to a novel challenging the societal status quo. Of course, this could be intentional, an attempt to expose the gossamer facade of 19^th Century society and its untenably shallow reality, but the unwavering consistency in Dickens’ portrayal of Esther’s purity, and the manner in which all around adulate her incessantly, summons question marks to the fore over how much this social critique actually criticises. Furthermore, Esther’s good-nature rendered me unable to take her seriously, actually frustrating on occasion, somewhat undermining a novel which places emphasis on realism in all other regards (with the glaring anomaly of Krooks’ spontaneous combustion conveniently ignored). Yeats once said (rightly in my eyes) that ‘literature exists, in some degree, to reveal a more powerful, and passionate, a more divine world than ours’, and so Esther’s personification of humanity’s virtues in their undiluted form should merit a place in literature. I do not dispute that. But I do not believe that her place is in Bleak House, as she threatens to dismantle Dickens’ overarching assault on Victorian society by coaxing readers into believing in the comforting security of self-suppression and absolute endurance.

Reading Bleak House is a lot like ordering a seafood platter on the Barcelona coast in the height of summer. Before placing your order, you know that it’s going to be big, that it’s going to make no effort to play-down its size, and that its main objective is to attract the lion’s share of the passing crowd and sell itself flagrantly. You also know that it is probably going to be well cooked, taste good and leave little to be desired when it comes to a satisfied appetite. But what you might not have prior knowledge of is that, hiding under the generic fruits of the sea, the prawns and langoustines of the literary world, are some little gems, the unexpected gustatory delights which will most likely live longest in the memory, and bring you back to eat the same chef’s food in the future.

If Charles Dickens did maritime cuisine...

In 2015, can we still learn anything from a Christmas tale written in 1843?

Walking down the street in this day and age, it would be harder to find someone who has not heard of A Christmas Carol and Ebenezer Scrooge’s reckoning with the three Christmas ghosts, than someone who has. Whilst undoubtedly a testament to Dickens’ cross-generational appeal, his timeless call for generosity and a kind-spirited nature at this festive period is in danger of being taken for granted in a modern capitalist society which is becoming increasingly globalised, the paradox of which leaves us ever-conscious of the existence of others around the world, and their plights, but at the same time desensitised to their suffering and all-the-more focused on our own well-being and success. Perhaps, therefore, in a time when magnanimity too often halts at the threshold of our front door, this Victorian author’s call for social justice and a heightened awareness of those less fortunate than ourselves deserves a revisit, and could prove a lesson even more wanting than before.

Fortunately, we have an immediate opportunity to begin showing the sort of munificence which Dickens called for in 1843. With the refugee crisis still unrelenting across Europe, and showing no sign of abating, it is worrying that news coverage of this catastrophe wanes at the same time that opinion both hardens in those countries initially receptive to the dire need to aid these people, and galvanises impregnably in those which were already unsympathetic. Whilst I hope that nobody would simply forget about the existence of this issue, and the real people whose Christmas is to be spent huddling amongst one another in makeshift refugee camps far from home, or  on dinghies halfway across the wintry Mediterranean Sea, the decreasing attention which they are receiving in this country runs the risk of misleading people that the crisis is improving or, at the very least, not a concern over the Christmas period. It is at times like this that Dickens’ words must be heeded in order that the emotional disconnect between nationalities and races becomes secondary to a universal desire to help those in need.

Will reading a Victorian novella today result in us all changing our ways and approaching the New Year with more empathy and altruism? Probably not, as it didn’t do much good when it was first published; in January 1844, just one month after A Christmas Carol’s release, Parley's Illuminated Library began selling a pirated edition, making a mockery of the tale’s central tenet of moral scrupulousness. This suggests that Dickens’ endeavour to stem the incessant flow of mankind’s selfish pursuit of self-gain was futile when still recent, so the chances of doing so over 150 years later is unlikely. But that does not stop us from trying.

So, as you enjoy Christmas Day with friends and family, wherever you are and whatever you do, think on the tale of Ebenezer Scrooge and the lessons which we ourselves can learn from his spiritual awakening. Whilst the protagonist of course takes centre-stage throughout A Christmas Carol, the Christmas message which can still resonate most strongly, and has the power to make a difference most profoundly,  is perhaps best summed-up by the rueful words of the minor character of Scrooge’s nephew, Fred;

"Christmas is the only time when men open their shut-up hearts freely and think of people below them."

I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.