Within/Without: Reflections on a Year in Oxford

Almost five months ago now, I graduated from the University of Oxford with a Master’s degree in English with American Studies.

In many ways, my arrival in Oxford last September was the final stage of a long journey back. Nearly 23 years ago (yikes) I was born in Oxford in the John Radcliffe Hospital, and lived on Great Clarendon Street in Jericho with my parents and later my younger brother for the first couple of years of my life. We left the city before I had even turned two, but returned periodically for day trips throughout my childhood, and throughout that time, ever since I can remember, I wanted to go to uni there.

I’m sure most small children don’t fantasise about the university they’ll one day send their UCAS forms to, but I did.  I was one of those unbearably ambitious children who’s always shoving things they’ve written or made in your face and telling you how big and famous they’re going to be when they grow up. (I say “unbearable” as if I won’t defend to the death small children’s radiant ambition for their futures. Don’t be fooled by this. I am very much pro-precocity.) I dreamed relentlessly big and out loud, and my grandiose speech was always pretty much the same: I was going to be an author, and I was going to do English at Oxford University.

Now, I have done that, albeit a few years later than planned, but ultimately in a better way than I could have imagined. (Well, the Oxford part. Still working on the other one.) I initially applied to the University at undergrad, interviewed at a few colleges, but was ultimately rejected. I’m sure it sounds like saving face now – and I’m not denying that at the time I was disappointed and periodically very depressed about it – but getting rejected by Oxford at undergrad was possibly the best thing that ever happened to me. Scroll back in this blog and you’ll see how much I loved where I ended up for undergrad, and I think I’d probably be very different and arguably worse if things had all gone to plan. But getting there, finally, after such a long time, after so many changes of heart and mind and relationship with the place, was a provoking enough experience to me that I thought I should try to explain it, write down my impressions of the place, as much for myself as for the benefit of anyone else. So here it is.

Oxford comes to me now mostly in terms of spaces. Spaces in and out of sight; the thin membrane of locked doors or ‘Closed to Visitors’ signs that separates the indiscriminate street from the discriminate (and often discriminatory) enclave of the University.

For years – for as long as I could remember, even – I had been an outside visitor, and the condition of possibility created by the University’s enforced privacy had allowed my imagination to run wild. In my head, rooms bloomed behind the college walls: rooms endowed with no physical features as such, but instead a kind of amorphous promise, an almost electric charge that crackled in the air and wriggled into the bloodstream so that those granted entry carried it around in their veins and nerve-endings long after leaving, alive with it.


There was a slight shift in this thinking as I moved to undergrad in York, visiting Oxford two or three times a term to see my boyfriend. I was now allowed mediated entry into the inner spaces of the University, and the life associated with them – formal dinners, black tie balls – but the membrane was still robustly intact. If I wandered outside of it unmet or unaccompanied, I could be stuck on the other side, lacking a student card to swipe me back through. Oxford is not the easiest place to inhabit without a University library card – there are few places, even in the city centre, in which you can be inside without paying anything, and where you can stay as long as you like. The result is that it was a place that was difficult to totally relax in. In winter, I’d find myself either trying to amuse myself in my boyfriend’s study bedroom all day while he worked in the library, or wandering around the city’s collegiate facades, exposed to the cold, lacking a broader selection of shelter.*

2017-04-05 14.49.58.jpgSo, to suddenly – or so it seemed to me last autumn – acquire the means to pass back and forth across that barrier at will (which is, really, to make it disappear altogether) was slightly strange. I guess it was a case of seeing the city from a new perspective again, an opening-up: looking out from the library or classroom window at the watcher in the street, at the camera lenses that blink up at you from wherever you look in Oxford, rather than being the one with their feet on the cobbles, their finger poised on the shutter.

That inside-outside negotiation is, I think, my dominant association with the city. It is always going to be a place that I view multiply. There are so many different perspectives or lenses through which I do view or have viewed it. There is, of course, the rosy lens formed of idolising it, outside-in, growing up. The haziness around the edges, every space an imagined or half-imagined mirage. And then there’s the practical, day-to-day lens, tempered by the act of living in the place for a year. Its scenery become a permanent backdrop, its quirks and shortcomings absorbed into the texture of my life.

It’s rare that these lenses ever slide across one other, line up just right for me to see in its many-layered entirety what Oxford means, has meant, to me. Like a lunar eclipse, it’s a momentary event, and occasions for it are few and far-between, but maybe it’s fitting that my most vivid memories of it happening are from sitting in the library at dusk, and watching the sun set over the familiar rooves around which I’ve been skirting what seems like my whole life. Glancing out and suddenly being hit over the head with it, red light on the RadCam, and realising I made it to a seat I’d wanted to be in for so long. Not only that, but that I’d managed it so thoroughly that I actually had the audacity to find it uncomfortable.

Picture it – you’re sitting there, thrilled at your occupation of this (symbolically) fantasy seat, and yet also cognizant that this is not the best seat in the library. All the adjustable, more comfortable chairs were taken. In fact, this library, the most picturesque, is not even your favourite. You could sustain a good ten-minute rant on why this library, in fact, for all its beautiful ceilings, is actually vastly inferior to many other libraries outside of this hallowed institution for the simple fact that it does not the most efficiently facilitate its purpose: effective university study. You realise that you finally know all the little things about what it’s like to actually work in this library day-to-day because that is what you do; you finally know all of the things that you couldn’t have imagined from the outside; you know its reality, because it is your reality. And yet, the sudden reality of the situation similtaneously makes it more surreal. For a moment you are both inside and outside, you’re amazed and you’re impatient, you’re everywhere, you’re all over the place. This is your life!

2017-03-22 19.14.12Then, of course, you get back to the task at hand. The light fades as you shift in your uncomfortable chair. You work on your essay notes ‘til the library closes and then cycle home in the cold, every time trying not to think about the bicycle accident statistics on the Cowley Roundabout as you’re crossing Magdalen Bridge. You get home, make dinner. Sleep in your uncomfortable and overpriced single bed. This is your life.

Of course, it’s not my life any more. I’m back outside the membrane now – though there are ways in and out if I want to go. But by and large, the barrier is back up and the open book of ever-expanding possibility that Oxford was for a good nine months has gently closed.

In a lot of ways, it feels good to stand outside of it. In this laboured metaphor of inside versus outside space, it’s probably appropriate that the Oxford atmosphere could very often be oppressive. As much as you can read the disappearance of the barriers into the University as the opening-up of the city for me, in some ways it was like a closing-down, or a swallowing. There’s a reason they have such beautiful ceilings in libraries at Oxford: they hope that if they’re at least pretty, you’ll forget how much time you spend under them, and how little time you spend out, away, doing anything or thinking about anything else.

2017-03-28 12.09.36-1An example: in the spring I completed what was undoubtedly the most full-on essay period of my life, wearing my fingers to stubs on my keyboard and hardly having time to think about anything else. When I had finished, I went to the Exam Schools on the High Street to hand the final essay in (evidence again of Oxford’s obsession with the crossing of a physical and exclusive threshold to achieve literally anything). I then cycled to meet fellow survivors at The Perch pub on the edge of Port Meadow. I was tired, exhilarated, slightly in denial that I had actually finished the essays and not perished in some kind of referencing-induced swoon. I coasted down Binsey Lane towards the river, nobody else on the road, and looked up for the first time in what felt like forever at the sky overhead, pale and high-up. I remember laughing as though a sudden burst of oxygen had rushed to my head all at once. Getting out of those spaces, sometimes, could be just as good as getting into them. There’s more air out here.

So that’s Oxford, I suppose. Multiply-meaningful, impossible to pin down to one thing, or one emotion, even one period of my life. Even since graduating I feel like I’ve conducted a whole other life in the city that was equally as new and different to those that went before it. So it goes. It both was and wasn’t like living inside a dream, and going back, as I always have, and maybe always will, will probably keep on feeling familiarly strange.

The world surely has not another place like Oxford; it is a despair to see such a place and ever to leave it, for it would take a lifetime and more than one to comprehend and enjoy it satisfactorily.

– Nathaniel Hawthorne, The English Notebooks

I wanted to get out and walk eastward toward the park through the soft twilight but each time I tried to go I became entangled in some wild strident argument which pulled me back, as if with ropes, into my chair. Yet high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed their share of human secrecy to the casual watcher in the darkening streets, and I was him too, looking up and wondering. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the  inexhaustible variety of life.

– F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

*I would like to add that the city centre has become a bit more congenial now. For visitors to Oxford looking for a free place to rest or wander, I recommend the relatively recently-opened Weston Library, where they have running free exhibitions of the University’s archival materials and, mercifully, benches where you can sit, for free, and watch people eat overpriced scones in the library tea-room. You’re welcome in advance for your exploitation of this resource.


Until Next Time

Three weeks ago today I got handed a piece of paper and my degree at the University of York was over. There was a fancy outfit involved, not to mention a nerve-wracking walk across a stage to shake the hand of a man in a gold-tasselled hat, but essentially what the day boiled down to was the presentation of a certificate that was meant to quantify the last three years spent in this beautiful city.

Overall, it was a good day: I enjoyed wearing the dress I’d combed what felt like the whole Internet to find; I enjoyed reuniting with my friends and wearing my graduation gown. I even enjoyed the terror-inducing walk across the stage in front of a roomful of peers and parents. (Note: if I have to list a drawback, I didn’t really enjoy the hat. I now understand why it’s traditional to violently throw them when the ceremony is over.) The sun shone and York shone with it – and for those that haven’t seen it, York in the sunshine is the most beautiful place on Earth.


However, I couldn’t help feeling that the whole ceremony, all the pomp and bluster of graduation, was somewhat disconnected to what being a student at York had actually meant to me in the three years I spent there. Yes, they were three years spent working (very hard, I flatter myself to think), to get a degree in English Literature: three years of seminars and office hours, of mild hero-worship of various members of staff. But they were three years, also, of moments spent in other places than the library, at other tasks than reading. Where, for example, was the piece of paper that quantified my excursions up and down the banks of the River Ouse, under gold skies or grey, strolling beneath sycamores to the city centre? Where was my certificate declaring my abiding love for the York Minster: for standing in its colossal shadow amid the tolling of its bells? Where, I ask, was the formal acknowledgement of all the bar crawls over cobbles? The deeply personal attachments formed to York’s bookshops and their proprietors? Where was the paper goodbye that I was promised?

Looking back over my time at university, a piece of paper and a handshake was never really going to cut it.


I arrived in York three years ago wholly unprepared for the ordeal of moving away from home and starting my adult life from what felt like scratch. I was so overwhelmed on my first night that I didn’t even make it out for the first night of Freshers Week. Sleep-deprived and overly emotional, what was supposed to be a sik club night transpired as many hours of hysterical crying on the phone to my boyfriend. There are many explanations for this, the main one being that, while I may have looked (arguably) like a young adult equipped for change, I was actually a tiny baby in a grown-up-human suit, who felt wrenched up by the roots from everything that made me comfortable. After a summer in which I’d never not been busy, being without a foundation of people who knew me and cared about me, not to mention living in a place that I’d only visited once before was paralysing. I felt miserable – and, ultimately, embarrassed. Embarrassed that I could go from being someone who rarely cried to someone who cried nearly every day; embarrassed that anyone was seeing me like this, let alone forming their first impressions of me on this basis; embarrassed, most of all, that I was not having the uni experience everyone expected, and which everybody else seemed to already be enjoying.

IMG_3148.JPGTo cut a long story short, what followed this initial grieving period was me growing the fuck up. Instead of crying about the things that stressed me out – the main one of these being, predictably, money – I made proactive steps for the first time to be on top of them (in terms of the money, it was very sophisticated; there was a spreadsheet involved). I became more independent in other ways: I explored my new city alone, carving out familiar paths through unfamiliar streets, falling in love step by step, oddly-named passage by oddly-named passage. So much of my development into a somewhat-functioning human being happened in York; so much of my personality is coloured by its streets and students that leaving, much like arriving, felt somewhat like a bereavement.

IMG_3153.JPGPeople often push to define university as just one thing – for example, politicians currently seem to be going for “financially crippling” – but the truth is that three years is a long time. It’s easy to look back at my memories of my first night on York campus and to feel that it was wasted time, to paint my first year with the brush of misery and vow never to speak of it again, to imagine that it got better like a light coming on at the beginning of second year. But that’s not the way it was. Yes, my debut at Freshers Week was a teary disappointment, but the next night I went to pre-drinks in the grotty dining room next door, stayed out til 4am and, actually, met most of the people whose company would see me through the next three years. Yeah, I still cried the next day, and the day after, and for a good few days after that probably. To be honest, if you had to take a bet on what I was doing on any given day in October 2013 you’d get good odds on “having a little sob.” But my time at York, despite or even because it began so miserably, turned out to be the best thing that’s happened to me in my life so far, and has meant so many different things. Inside its walls and out, York was the scene of so many intrigues and triumphs and elations and commiserations, so much of my growing up, that it’s no wonder all of them didn’t fit under the roof of Central Hall – a building only a stone’s throw away from the bedroom I thought I’d never learn to love, in the place I thought would never feel like home.

On my last solitary walk through York the day after I graduated, feeling the farewell left unsaid at the ceremony, I kept asking myself how it is that you say goodbye to a place that has meant so much to you, that has so much of you in it. I went to the pub with my friends still wondering, and remembered after a few weeks apart from them how easily they make me feel better about everything, in this case my imminent departure from the best place in the world. There’s no piece of paper that can sum up everything I’ve learned in York. How will I say goodbye to this amazing place? Short answer: I won’t.


“You get a strange feeling when you’re about to leave a place, I told him, like you’ll not only miss the people you love but you’ll miss the person you are now at this time and this place because you’ll never be this way ever again.”

– Azar Nafisi, Reading Lolita in Tehran

Both an Organ and a Blade

When I tell people that I study English literature, there is one question that they almost always seem to ask.

“But hasn’t that totally ruined reading for you? Hasn’t it made it a chore?”

I can see their point. Reading is, after all, an intensely personal experience – the free play of the mind over the landscape of someone else’s words, at once a meeting of minds and a blissful self-isolation. It’s easy to see how the idea of imposing a structure on such a boundless activity, which essay deadlines and seminars and lectures inevitably do, of tuning yourself to what a text is doing and how instead of immersing yourself uncritically in its story, can seem like something of a death sentence.

And yet, I always reply in the negative. No – despite its best efforts, my degree has failed to make me hate reading. If anything, it has made me a more adventurous, more enthusiastic reader. Not only has it introduced me to books and concepts I may never have confronted otherwise, but honing my critical skills has been incredibly rewarding. The quest to be at once a sensitive eye and a keen and seeking blade is something I have found increasing enjoyment in as my studies have progressed. I enjoy the search. I am a reader.

The problem with my studies, then, is not so much what they’ve done to me in that capacity, but in another. If we’re being perfectly honest with each other, dear stranger, this blog post is about the most coherent piece of writing I’ve done in the last three years. The creative urgency I always felt – the urgency that drove me to write with naivety but always with honesty, the urgency that brought me to myself, that fuelled me – seems, in recent years, to have waned. What happened to that flame that was like a furnace? That kept me up at night? That filled pages and hard drives and days of my life?

The truth is, I already know. On those rare occasions that a flicker darts through the dark, there I, the reader, always am. Always over my own shoulder, critical eye and hungry blade: doubly armed with critical skills and a preordained knowledge of my own vulnerabilities, my veteran insecurities. Suddenly Roland Barthes’s assertion that the death of the Author is the birth of the Reader (a staple notion of my first year of university study) takes on an altogether more discouraging, more ruthless tone. I read and dismantle before I have even written. I cut myself to pieces. 

The furthest I get is a scribble in the margins, dogged always by an apologetic question mark – as if to say, “I’m probably wrong.” I put down the pen, move on to something else. Assure myself that the time for inspiration will come some other day.

But that is just not good enough for me any more.

The time has come when I can no longer pretend that this is working for me, this working myself up to the possibility of creation and then chastising myself for its inadequacy. I need to accept that there’s no bolt of lightning coming for me, no magical moment of revelation when suddenly that flame will roar into life again, and I’ll be saved from this long silence. The only solution is to try. To push past my fear of myself, of mediocrity. To write my way back – however painful, however arduous – back to that voice of creative confidence I feel I have lost.

And so, this blog is born. Not in the spirit of despair, but of reconciliation – the reconciliation of reader and writer, critic and creative, self-consciousness and self-acceptance. And above all the hope that I can allow myself to be both organ and blade without tearing myself to pieces.

I hope, for my sake, that it works. I hope for yours that it’s worth watching.

“It is an intrinsic human trait, and a deep responsibility, I think, to be an organ and a blade. But, learning to forgive ourselves and others because we have not chosen wisely is what makes us most human. We make horrible mistakes. It’s how we learn. We breathe love. It’s how we learn. And it is inevitable.” – Nayyirah Waheed