Hamish’s Blog

Life

My fishing rod. My Buzzy Bee.
My red trike. My feijoa tree.
My Indian hat. My pool.
Barney. The Wiggles. Pekerau School.
What Now? Noddy. My feather sword.
My bicycle. My wand and cape.
My red book bag. My cat.
The trip to Taupo. School Award.

Boats and Islands. Cornelius.
Glockenspiel. My school bus.
My piano. My C Grade Band.
The Internet. Disneyland.
My phone. My blog. My iPod.
My posters. My books. My lanyards.
My science kit. My song about the blues.
My juggling balls. My horn. Pink shoes.

My DVD’s. My back door keys.
My magic cards. My theatre mates.
My Toblerone. My running shoes.
Starlight Express. Catherine Tate.
My stickers. My flashlight.
My piñata. My plane kite.
My Meccano. My Musopoly.
My boomerang. My toy Barney.

It was Lynda who saw the shadows first and it was two and a half hours before when Rochelle got in the family car.

They were there watching the flickering lights emitting from television screen. All seven of them were tightly packed into dimly lit lounge like sardines in an overflowing tin. This was a regular occurrence for the weekends and while the others were intently fixated on the fast flowing images, Hamish, who was bored with the lack of rich conversation, lazily gazed through the open slit made by the curtains.

            “Don’t touch the silver one…,” said the tall man on the screen, whose voice trailed out of Hamish’s earshot.

He pulled back the corner of the curtain with his first finger and strained to make out the shapes through the condensation frosted windows. The bitter coldness felt as though it burned the palm of his hand as he cleared the glass to see through, seeing Knight, the large black Labrador winding his way round the fence line. Then his father, bucket in hand, made his way to the garden.

            The sound of laughter filled the room behind Hamish’s head, so he swivelled round on the leather couch trying not to wake the peach coloured cat sleeping on his side. Some comedian featured in this film made some wise crack joke against a former politician. That’s not funny. He was right though, it was just ‘toilet humour’ (the lowest form of comedy possible). So he leant back in the seat and yawned, just an ordinary yawn. But it always happened that the tears would prick in his eyes and well up around the edges.

It was three hours ago when Rochelle fingered the purple powder inside the little plastic bag after hanging up from a call with an unknown man.

            A shadow loomed over the back of the couch, but Hamish took no notice. The tears splintered the light emitting from the box in the corner of the room creating a prismatic effect, the idea of being on an ‘acid trip’ as described on the news show the night before. As he wiped the blur from his eyes the credits rolled and with the commotion of everyone moving, no one heard Lynda as she opened the curtains.

            “Did you see that outside?

            “What are you talking about, do you want juice or Sprite?” said the others from the breakfast counter, which had been overrun with paperwork.

            “Did you see outside?” she was peering up on her tiptoes to see over onto the cobbles.

All the while Hamish just watched.

            “It was just Hamish’s dad.”

“Wayne.”

            “Yeah, Wayne. He was outside.”

It was four hours ago when the call bearing names of three teenagers were exchanged to Rochelle with a light chuckle of recognition.

All the while Hamish watched. He knew what Lynda, who had started to chat with Iain about some school production they might watch, had meant. He had noticed it also. Déjà vu. It was like déjà vu, the concept of which he had never grasped, yet he had experienced. He would be looking one way and out of the corner of his eye would see something, even if it were just for a minute, flash past.  Now sometimes it were a person but other times it could not be explain, making him double take once or twice only to see nothing.

            The daze he was in was interrupted by Shannon, a bubbly character with something of a comedic dark side.

            “What are we going to do now,” she said, “Can we just sit with the chips?”

            “Good idea!” Hamish said, while pushing the other couch around to accompany the gathering mass.

            Packets of chips were open and poured into the wooden bowl on the glass top table which quickly depleted via the diving seagull hands. The conversation was milling around a central uninteresting topic and while not hitting the issue itself it went on wayward tracks about science, hated school teachers and Harry Potter movies. All of which were drifting over Hamish’s head as he sat taking in the colour of Jayden’s t-shirt and Rochelle’s blue jeans instead of the voice randomly and franticly jumping from one excited mouth to another.

            The shadow flicked past the window on his right giving the odd effect of an old Charlie Chaplin movie on the trampoline outside. Hamish’s eyes flicked from the window to Lynda who was concentrating on the window. The others began to realise that something suspicious was going on.

            “What are you looking at?” Christina questioned her.

            “Nothing.”

            “Yes you were watching something; I saw your eyes following it”

            “It was just a bird,” she said, brushing her hair out of her eyes.

It was five hours ago when the scarlet letter appeared on Rochelle’s desk.

            Hamish could sense her increasing anxiety and the fear which was mounting in her eyes. She was itching her forehead which Hamish of course knew wasn’t itchy. Shannon was beginning to catch on with what was happening and got up to walk to the window. Don’t say it, don’t say it.

            “Chelle,” she said, Rochelle turned to face her, “did you see that shadow before?”

            Rochelle scrunched her nose and raised her hand to her chin, pretending to think back to some memory that had been lost from consciousness for many years.

            “I guess not then,” she said seriously, though others smiled at the seemingly purposeful joke. But after that point they all noticed, even if they didn’t want to say, they all say the shadows.

It was eight hours ago when Noma Sila gave Rochelle the test of truth.

Darkness fell outside the room. Night. The winds howled and glasses clinked, cracked and clashed in far off places where there was nothing to worry about, but here and now there was something to worry about. Between Iain and Jayden’s hands a Rubik cube twisted, clicking buttons of cell phones tapped in the background and Hamish and Shannon and Lynda stared.

“Hey! Come and look at this,” Jayden yelled, with the coloured cubes.

“Look here!” Rochelle said sweetly, from the other side of the room, so all eyes turned from the window.

The shadow stood beside the window, darker than the darkness itself, facing the brick wall on the outside.

“Shit!” screamed Christina, who turned round, the black creature staring at her.

Rochelle reached for her pocket, pulled out the purple dust, thrusting her arm forward then round to the side so the whole room filled with darkness.

It was nine years, fifteen days, two hours and three seconds ago that Rochelle was given her choice.

            Screams of fear echoed throughout the room, which did not echo. And though no one noticed, though everyone was for themselves, no screams, no sound, no movement came from Hamish, Lynda and Shannon. When the dust cleared Rochelle laughed.

            “That was cool ay! I found it online, it like reacts with the air and expands, but doesn’t stain anything at all! It’s awesome!”

            “That was creepy,” choked Iain, “It was like, like those… those black dust Death Eater people off Harry Potter, you know!”

            Lynda, Shannon and Hamish just stared forward, seemingly out of shock. But something else was wrong that the others didn’t see!

            “No,” said Hamish, “that was the surveyor he had to hurry as he was late, he had to work quick, which was the dark moving person.”

            “Are you O.K Lynda?” said Christina, going to comfort her friend.

            “Yes. I am fine,” there was no fear in her voice and it almost seemed to Hamish and Shannon, robotic!

            But the others thought she was just scared, from the experience. But inside the three knew what was happening, they could not answer freely to their friends. They all though in rhythm, she, she did this to us! But no one could understand. Now, now we wouldn’t want to frighten them, would we!

            “That was a bit frightening, do not you think?” answered Hamish, to the others pressing questions.

            They left Hamish’s house, he had wanted to scream out, but he couldn’t, he had wanted to tell them that their Chelle was a horrible, horrible plague on the earth; the one children spoke of in playground games to frighten the others. The three lost souls could communicate, Help! Help! Send help, please! But forever they would remain silent.

Hamish unconsciously wrote this story, Help! Help! Robotically he typed, lost in the words and finally he could write the last words of his saviour letter, Help! Help!

            He discovered the answer to the shadows, And to stop Rochelle… the key to save the three, Don’t you dare!

            “And,” said Hamish, “they all lived happily ever after. The End”

This is my fourth 8808 (NCEA) book reviewing entry.

Title:               Northern Lights

Author:          Philip Pullman

Genre:                        Narrative

Cultural Perspective:

Gender Perspective:  Male

Pullman’s novel “Northern Lights” has become world renown because of its rich fantasy, high drama and intense emotion and, though slightly different, it relates to our world and own lives.

A character that had impact on me was Mrs Coulter and the way she is presented in Part One of the novel. She is described as “a beautiful young lady” whom seems to be taking children, for their own safety, on a journey to the North. Pullman portrays her as a deceitful person, tricking others into loving her for her appearance when she really plans to harm them. She asked the children to write letters to their family to tell them where they were going and after “she bade them farewell and saw them in the care of the bold captain” she “threw the little bundle of letters into the furnace.” My first reaction was that of anger towards her but the strong resentment I felt was not justified as I did not know, at the time, for what purpose she was doing these horrible deeds of stealing children.

She seems very sly and has a well practiced facade which she displays; this is reiterated when Lyra meets her, and though normally she would see past a person who is a “fake”, she looks up to Mrs Coulter as being “not like any female Scholar” that she had met. The way in which she welcomes Lyra to help her is perplexing because though it seems she has real interest in Lyra’s potential, though previous description of her evil ways provoked a thought in me that there may be more to this than at first glance.

Mrs Coulter is very persuasive and I felt she was a strong figure as she had control over Lyra who is normally described as a “wild child.” Lyra’s dæmon Pantalaimon questions whether Mrs Coulter is really going to help them get to the North, but Lyra, who seems to be fully under Coulter’s charm, disagrees, putting it down to him not liking her. Mrs Coulter’s true side is aggressively shown when Lyra refuses to wear the dress that she was provided. Mrs Coulter’s dæmon attacks Pantalaimon and though “Lyra sobbed in terror. ‘Don’t! Please! Stop hurting us!’” Mrs Coulter barely noticed, casually “looking up from her flowers.” When the problem was resolved Coulter asks Lyra to be well behaved and when she agrees Mrs Coulter replies, almost as if the previous incident had never happened, “Then kiss me.”

I felt that Pullman’s character of Mrs Coulter had impact on me because I felt negatively towards her horrible evil side and they way she carelessly treats those who love and trust her and believe and in her care. The way she is portrayed in the novel effectively creates tension between the main characters as well as suspense in the plot, which I found captivating to read.

Oh, what an experience. I was the one who found the King… sorry; I had better start from when I was with Lennox. We were going to see Macbeth, my fellow Lord, who invited the rest of us to a banquet in the morning. Lennox and I travelled far to get to Fife. He spoke of the night being unruly and, ah, people, who made cries of grief. I didn’t know really what he meant, though back at home, folk spoke of an approaching storm. We came to the castle gates, which were shut, even though they knew we were coming. Lennox, being a bit impatient, kept knocking, so I did too but no one came. Uh… oh, there were people moving around inside the main bloody chamber, yet we were forced to wait in the cold. I never had been so insulted! And, to top it all off the Porter, wait till I tell you about him, he was drunk! Came to the godforsaken gate and was drunk! Sorry… just gets me so worked up.

Then, ah… oh yes, Macbeth, Macbeth, that traitor! Seemingly oblivious to the fact that the King was dead in the next chamber, so allowed me to find him, as Duncan had me requested to, but assumedly not in such a state. O the horror! Horror! Horror! Someone, so murderous, so conniving, stole from me, from us! He who doth enter the Lords anointed temple should have been struck down there! And me! Explaining to that hideous mockery of a Lady that the murder occurred, Macbeth and his mistress thieved words from my mouth that had needn’t be spoken! That “gentle lady” be the scum of the earth. Then like a serpent hiding beneath an innocent flower she fainted with false grief.

Erm…. then… Ross, oh after leaving the castle, I meet with Ross. At the time I knew not of Macbeth’s dark deed so thought, like all the other blatantly oblivious men, that the slain guards committed the murder. Though Ross said that because Duncan’s sons Malcolm and Donalbain, of whom I had no regular meetings with, though sounded like nice men… though because they fled have been accused of bribing the guards. But I knew better, even though Ross was a loyal man, he was not a bright man and couldn’t really see the clear evidence. Well, the whispers. Words of women, hideous but hidden, women that look not like the inhabitants of the earth and, oh they were the Weird Sisters, I think that’s what they called them, yes, the Weird Sisters, who melted as breath into the wind. Worst yet was that Macbeth was said to be consorting with these vile spirits.

Then it happened that the sovereignty did fall upon Macbeth. It makes me hot to think that a traitor… of such betrayal should be given a position of such magnitude and greatness. I refused to be in his presence ‘cause I would myself thrust him off the highest pinnacle to the fiery depths of hell before he should rule me! The crowing, now a stupid symbol of nothing and a, sorry… stupid symbol, of nothing, yes, nothing worth living for, fired me. I trusted the whispers; they would guide me to revenge the King! My mistrust took me England, from whence I met Malcolm and Ross did tell me of the… of the death…. first I got convinced him that I was loyal and he pledged  that he would give all he could to restore peace to this glorious land of Scotland. Then… this is hard to put… the news, the horrible news… my wife, my son, my castle’s people, their death. Macbeth killed my beloved family, for whom I treasured above all! I had left them, I should have been there! If I had known that leaving the King or my family alone would have resulted in this I would have never, never in my life, have left the safety of Fife! They could have taken me, let my son be an orphan child, instead of stealing my treasures away!

I had to be strong. I had to let my grief convert to anger and revenge the lost souls of the good to take the murderer Macbeth. The grief and the rage, well I had to suppress them both, so to cut short all intermission from when this fiend of Scotland and I meet. Within my sword’s length set him, and that, ah… excuse me, I’m not normally this forgetful. Oh, and for me to take him down would cure the pains that ravaged me then.

Malcolm’s army followed me in pursuit of Macbeth, with talks coming through the ranks that he was fearless! Phew, how laughable such a thing is, to not fear fear itself! Then, the most recent that did happen, my confrontation with that spineless, backstabbing man. He went on to say how he would “not yield to one of woman born”, which of course is senseless, as how could this be possible. It was though he was in like a… how could I put it, a trance, of some sort. He radiated a sense of the supernatural, like witches were invading his being; it was, well, partly saddening to see that he was beyond honour, love, obedience and troops of friends! Yet I could not put that in front of my duty to the Lord. I revealed that I was from my mother’s womb untimely ripped, which frightened him. I was brought back to when the news of my family was revealed, the same look of disbelief, like the whole world will crumble, hit him on the face.

I ended it there, dead was Macbeth. Soldiers told me that he had once unseamed a traitor from the nave to the chops, and fixed his head upon our battlements, and now he has been dealt the same fate. The cries still ring, “I will not yield” and will haunt me, haunt me forever. Hmm, that is all behind me… for now, in celebration we hail Malcolm! Hail, King.

I once heard Macbeth spoken of as brave and courageous but he was just, is just and will always be, just a dead butcher and his fiend-like Queen.

Macduff

This is an update of where people have visited me from on my Clustr Map (note the above picture is not of my map).

Make sure you get people to check out my blog so they can get their own little dot on my Clustr Map, and get one on your own blog!

Eyes thrust up, high in the darkened sky. Flutes swirl and twist and spray out through the air with an almost spontaneous burst of excitement. A figure makes a momentary look to the streets of trombones whose impatient horns blare, trying to get home out of the cold. Above, the wispy flutes die away and thunder bearing cymbals encroach into view, slowly at first then faster and faster. The sound made by the rolling cymbals is like that of someone telling another to be quiet, which crescendos to its loudest pinnacle.

The view drops down, through the brisk air. Drops of cornets make poker dots on the pavement, sounding like the knocking of a xylophone. These spots fill out to become a thin sheet of water which bounces up around the ankles of passerby when stood upon by even the lightest of feet.

The observer scours the bustling alleyways for more eyes but none can it find for all are tucked safely under hoods. Safe from the cold. People hastily trundle through the streets carrying brown paper bags filled with soups, vitamins and hot roast chickens, to keep away the encroaching cold. Their tubas are irregular but each keeps an even pace, shoe to sidewalk, shoe to sidewalk. The crowds of passersby invoke a small amount of euphonium. This feeling of worry and tension fills the stranger leading to suffocation taking over. The euphonium reaches a high note and suddenly the crowd disperses with people going every which way.  

There is a slow in the actions of the world as if the cold has frozen life. But everything is just on pause, because up again to the sky the observer climbs and lingers for a moment. As if by magic, glockenspiels majestically float from the clouds. Glistening a pearl white, swaying, flipping, shaped like that of stars, dainty and fairylike. One or two at first, then hundreds, perhaps thousands, faint to the ignorant, but ringing out indefinitely against the artist’s dull pallet of sky. Earth’s confetti. The eyes widen with a sense of joy, watching children play, almost circus like, frolicking in the light and fluffy snow. Playing hide and go seek, the joy turns to soprano cornets, the eyes involuntarily well with tears, overcome with emotion as all the children vanish in the white abyss, the lone body turning to the ground.

Colourful coats rise from the snow. A perfectly rounded compacted horn races past the eyes. The eyes frantically look round and see the many smiling faces. The fight begins. A thunderous cacophony erupts as a hundred glockenspiels fly past; a combination of sweet and mischievous. Firing squads blast each other from either side. The sound of the timpanis is deafening.  Blaring trombones start up again, driver’s angry at the children’s in the way fun. The tangy smell of brass is so defiant that it is possible to taste. The eye just doesn’t know where to look! So many sounds, so much action, the striking piece seems as though it should sit in a picture frame.

It’s loud and soft, complicated but beautiful, fast but sweet. The observer’s vision blurs as everything gets faster, a silent hush follows as though everything will disappear. Bang, it all ends with a bang.

New life is now born.

This is the original piece of writing for my descriptive writing assignment. I will also post the revised copy and see what you think about the changes.

Observe the Winter Music

Eyes thrust up, high up in the darkened sky. Flutes swirl and twist and spray out through the air with an almost spontaneous burst of excitement. The glance flicks to the streets of trombones whose impatient horns blare, trying to get home out of the cold. Above the wispy flutes die away and thunder bearing cymbals encroach into view; slowly at first then faster and faster. The sound that goes unheard by the earth is like that of someone telling another to be quiet, which crescendos to its loudest pinnacle.

The view drops down, down, down through the brisk air. Drops of cornets make poker dots on the pavement, sounding like the plonking of a xylophone. These spots fill out to become a thin sheet of water which bounces up around the pedestrians ankles when stood upon by even the lightest of feet.

The eye scours the bustling alleyways for more eyes but none can it find for all are tucked safely under hoods. Safe from the cold. People hastily trundle through the streets carrying brown paper bags filled with soups, vitamins and hot roast chickens, to keep away the mounting chance of unwillingly catching the cold. Their tubas are irregular but each keeps an even pace, shoe to sidewalk, shoe to sidewalk. The crowds of passersby invoke a small amount of euphonium, this feeling of worry and tension fills the eye leading to suffocation taking over. The euphonium reaches a high note and suddenly the crowd disperses, people going every which way.

There is a slow in the actions of the world like the cold has frozen life. But everything is just on pause, because up again to the sky the eye climbs and lingers for a moment. As if by magic, glockenspiels majestically float from the clouds, glistening a pearl white, swaying, flipping, shaped like that of stars, dainty, fairylike. One or two at first, then hundreds, perhaps thousands, faint against the grey sky, to the ignorant, but ringing out indefinitely to the sharp of mind. Earth’s confetti. The eyes widen with a sense of joy, watching children play, almost circus like, frolicking in the light and fluffy snow. Playing hide and go seek, the joy turns to soprano cornets, the eyes involuntarily well with tears, overcome with emotion as all the children vanish in the white abyss, the eyes turning to the ground.

Colourful coats rise from the snow. A perfectly rounded compacted horn races past the eyes. The eyes frantically look round and see the many smiling faces. The fight begins. Horns made from a hundred glockenspiels, a combination of sweet and mischievous. Firing squads blast each other from either side. The sound of the timpani’s is deafening.  Blaring trombone’s start up again, driver’s angry at the children’s in the way fun. The tangy smell of brass is so defiant that it is possible to taste. The eye just doesn’t know where to look! So many sounds, so much action, the striking piece seems as though it should sit in a picture frame.

It’s loud and soft, complicated but beautiful, fast but sweet. The view blurs as everything gets faster, a silent hush follows as though everything will disappear. Bang, it all ends with a bang.

New life is now born.

I am now getting back into the Twitter sensation which is taking the world by storm! I have had an account for some time but hadn’t been on it for a while. But since some interesting people are now tweeting like Ellen Degeneres etc. I thought I would get back into it.

I do not post every second, like it seems some people do, but I try to get a few in each day. When on twitter to receive other people’s updates you have to ‘follow’ them. So far I have eight followers, but I don’t know where we are going! My objective now is to create an army of followers, hopefully some famous people too, and we are all not going to know where to go! So please follow me on twitter as ‘madscientistz’ and I may even follow you. Check it out!

Happy Tweeting

Hamish

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red, than her lips red,

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun:

If hairs be wires, black wires grown on her head:

I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks,

And in some perfumes is there more delight,

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know,

That music hath a far more pleasing sound:

I grant I never saw a goddess go,

My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.

            And yet by heaven I think my love as rare,

            As any she belied with false compare.

My Mistress’ Eyes are Nothing Like the Sun is a famous Shakespearian sonnet, which were traditionally love poems. William Shakespeare’s sonnets were published in 1609 and this is the 130th. Sonnets 127-152 are addressed to the lady with dark wiry hair. The speaker is a young man and seems to be involved with the women romantically. No one really knows how to explain Shakespeare’s life and many think he reveals it through his sonnets.

I choose this particular sonnet because it was one of the ones that caught my eye as it had a deep and thought provoking meaning. As well as that it was one of the most straightforward ones and easy to understand because, although it uses figurative language and the way Shakespeare wrote in Elizabethan times is sometimes difficult to interpret, it can be related to issues that occur in our time.

The speaker’s mistress has eyes which don’t sparkle like the sun, coral is much redder than that of her lips and her breasts are grayish-brown. Poets describe their mistresses’ hair as gold wire, but his mistress has black wires growing on her head. Her reeking breath is nothing like perfume, and she could never float through the air like a goddess.

Now, if she hadn’t by this time given him a good punch to the face or whacked him with the nearest heavy object or the more non-violet approach of leaving him, which most likely wouldn’t have been her first choice. But if she had listened to the last two lines of the poem, the rhyming couplet, where the turn occurs, which is when the speaker’s point of view or direction changes, she would have found out that the man thinks that his beloved is as special as any woman whom poets have lied about with a false comparison.

Shakespeare expresses the reality that a person isn’t always perfect and one doesn’t always looks spectacular. The physical attraction between the two seems as though it is isn’t constant or stable and it is for this reason that the couple needs to remain together. Even though the sonnet appears to be negative, it has positive words towards the end. The poet conveys that although reality can be different from our dreams and desires an intense love for a person will overcome the flaws. Other poets may utter false words, but the speaker doesn’t need to because he accepts her as she is.

An aspect of language I found interesting was that each line of the poem is an iambic pentameter. This means that every line has ten syllables separated into 5 feet, with two syllables per feet, consisting of unstressed and stressed beats. The rhyme scheme is abab, cdcd, efef, gg, and every four lines are called a quatraint. I found this style of poetry interesting as it was uniquely different to what I had read before.

Shakespeare provokes a thought that makes us ask ourselves, what is beauty? He also gets us to think about how see others.

And yet by heaven I think my love as rare,

As any she belied with false compare.

In the novel “The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde” Robert Louis Stevenson’s idea is that evil is inherent in all of humanity and that no person can be entirely good, however a man could be overtaken and controlled by pure evil. The nature of good and evil which Stevenson conveys and the constant struggle for supremacy between the two is very complicated and distinguishing between them is difficult as both are so closely entwined. This conflict between good and evil is conveyed through characterisation, setting and symbolism.

Stevenson expresses the conflict between good and evil through characterisation using Dr Jekyll as one of his focus points for this. Jekyll is “a large, well-made, smooth-faced man of fifty, with something of a slyish cast”; this suggests that he has something concealed from everyone else. Within these words Stevenson reveals the different levels of the character. His “smooth face” creates an impression that suggests he has a secret or hidden facade, the reader may be deceived by his immaculate appearance, hence an air of mystery. The expression “a slyish cast” creates a crack in Jekyll’s refined “mask” through which the reader begins to see his true nature and hints of darkness inside Stevenson’s character. What I think he is meaning to convey though, is that Jekyll is trying to hide evil itself, however because evil is strong Stevenson shows that he cannot stop it slowly encroaching into the character.

Another example of how characterisation is used to convey the conflict between good and evil is through Mr Hyde. Hyde eventually turns out to be Dr Jekyll whom has been changed by the drug, however, up until the point where this information becomes known to the reader, Stevenson’s other characters do not know this and think he is a different person altogether. The other characters do agree on one thing though, “He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his appearance; something displeasing something downright detestable… yet I scare know why. He must be deformed somewhere… although I couldn’t specify the point… And it’s not want of memory; for I declare I can see him at this moment.” This quotation is from when Enfield depicts to Utterson how he watched Hyde trample down a little girl. He is asked to describe Hyde’s appearance, but is unable to create a clear portrait. Stevenson’s Enfield affirms that he is disfigured, ugly, and causes an immediate revulsion, yet he cannot say why. Enfield’s incoherency sets a pattern for the novel as no one, from witnesses describing Hyde, to the police or even Utterson himself, can conceive a precise description of the man. Most people merely come to the conclusion that he appears ugly in some inexpressible way. Their lack of success in articulation creates an impression of Hyde as an uncanny figure, whose deformity is obscured, mysterious, and apparent with another sense, like human instinct, for which no word exists.

As well as characterisation playing an important part in this novel, some of the settings also convey the conflict between good and evil and their struggle to become the strongest “element of the soul”. Dr Jekyll’s “court was very cool and a little damp, and full of premature twilight, although the sky, high up overhead, was still bright with sunset”; Stevenson’s choice of words is used to show that even though it just seems like a court, the description means more in terms of good versus evil. This setting is a representation of Jekyll; he is the court that is filled “with sunset” or good, which he and everyone around him can see. However there is a hint of evil lingering in him, shown by the “premature twilight” which is slowly creeping into his body and trying to overpower his good spirit which is appearing to succumb as the evil increases. Stevenson conveys that Jekyll is trying to cover up this release of evil by saying that “the sky, high up overhead, was still bright with sunset”, which demonstrates that good is trying to block or push out the evil by “brightly” showing itself. However the “high up overhead” part of the quote indicates that Jekyll’s spirit and good will is far away, and that his need and want to not be evil is only second to his desire to be evil, meaning that his power to choose what he becomes is quite limited due to how far his consciousness is away from controlling his own mind. Stevenson effectively uses this to convey the change that is occurring inside his character of Dr Jekyll; showing that evil is beginning to manipulate Jekyll so he believes that he does not need the good within, which allows the evil that resides in him to dominate his soul, destroying the once good man.

The setting discussed contained elements that represented things greater than themselves. This type of symbolism is used throughout the novel to show the dramatic side of the contrast between good and evil and how the two are so closely related. The signatures of Stevenson’s characters, Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, are collected by Utterson and he shows them to his head clerk, Mr Guest, who deduces that “there’s a rather singular resemblance; the two hands are in many point identical: only differently sloped” Stevenson’s choice of words show the contrast in these signatures reflects the two sides of the Stevenson’s characters, sloping one way then the other, changing from one character to the other. Jekyll believes that he is safe in his seemingly good form and that any wrong done by his alter ego will just vanish and not compromise him when he takes the drug. However as shown by Stevenson’s quote, even Jekyll cannot create a new signature to disguise Hyde’s true identity meaning the difference between the two is very noticeable. This is also symbolic as Stevenson shows that suppressing the evil inside a person can make it more obvious especially when all the pent up rage, anger and cruelty gets released at once due to Jekyll not being able to control the evil which is now commanding him.

Through characterisation, setting and symbolism, Robert Louis Stevenson shows that evil is built-in to all of mankind and that it can exploit a person so that the light of good is extinguished. The closely linked relationship between good and evil and the continual battle between them is a never ending conflict in the novel “The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.”

Hamish