Ulysses?! Really?

    

Ulysses?! Really?

    What do we expect from a novel? A gripping plot, compelling characters, and the writer’s craft weaving it all together—at least, that’s what captivates me. So, when I opened Ulysses by James Joyce—a towering 1,000-page literary monolith often crowned as one of the greatest novels of all time—I was ready to dive into a great story.

And then… I got lost. Not in the story, but in the styles.

I can’t honestly recall much of the plot. What lingered, instead, was the sense of Joyce juggling literary techniques like a circus act, each chapter morphing into a new experimental form. For lovers of philology, this may be a goldmine. For me, it was a slog, I struggled to keep on. Somehow, I clawed my way to the final page—perhaps motivated by the bragging rights, or maybe just curiosity about where this labyrinth would end. But truthfully? I found it dull.

That’s the danger with long novels: the longer the story, the more pressure there is to hold the reader’s attention, build stakes, and deliver a payoff that ties it all together. Joyce tosses that structure aside. Instead, riders drift through a single day in Dublin, immersed in a torrent of internal monologue, meditations on marriage, affairs, funerals—endlessly looping in on itself.

Years later, I stumbled into a Twitter debate about Ulysses, surprised to find so many people who genuinely loved it. They praised its linguistic audacity, its depth of introspection, and its groundbreaking form. I respect that. I get it, in the same way I understand how some people find beauty in abstract jazz or obscure poetry (though they often leave me cold).

And yet—here’s the twist. The very fact that Ulysses resonates so deeply with others, while leaving me unmoved, is oddly comforting. It reminds me that the world is far richer and stranger than my own tastes can capture. What I see as confusion, someone else sees as genius. And that’s beautiful.

Because if literature has any real magic, maybe it lies there: not in agreement, but in the way it stretches the boundaries of what we think art should be.

Toni Font, Aberdeen 20/07/2025

Waiting to Be Triggered (The Easy Option)

   

Waiting to Be Triggered (The Easy Option)

    A committee meeting for the neighbourhood of Greenstone was scheduled at 8 p.m. in the old council room. The chair, Andy, sat at the head of the table. Among the members were Jacob Mitchells—father of Elisabet Mitchells, who was still recovering from a recent motorbike accident—and Elly Norton, mother of Jim Norton, the boy who’d been riding the motorbike.

On paper, the meeting had nothing to do with the accident. The agenda was to decide whether to extend the new streetlights to cover the entire neighbourhood. If they reached an agreement, they could present the plan to the town council and ask for funding.

Yet beneath the polite nods and measured words, the air felt dense with unspoken tension. Just last week, Jim’s motorbike had struck Elisabet, and while the police had intervened and a court date loomed, the roots of the conflict went deeper. For years, the Nortons had criticised the Mitchells for being aloof and self-important; the Mitchells defended what they saw as their right to choose whom they warmed up to—without being forced.

Andy watched them both, privately frustrated by what felt like a shared inability to confront conflict openly—to speak, not merely react. Instead, they seemed trapped by what psychologists might call an external locus of control: waiting for the other to provoke them, so they could justify their own anger as “only defending themselves.” Anything else felt too risky.

The paradox—plain to see for anyone looking closely—was that both sides simmered with anger and hurt, yet refused to let it show first. Each was fully prepared to defend their child, to snap back fiercely if provoked—but neither dared be seen as the instigator.

It wasn’t only pride holding them back. It was also fear: fear of being blamed, of surrendering moral high ground, of letting the other side use that first word against them. So emotion stayed clamped behind tight jaws, and hands gripped the table instead of pointing in accusation. Emotional inhibition became a fragile mask, worn for the sake of reputation.

In the end, they quietly voted to approve the streetlight extension. Andy, clearing his throat, opened the floor:

“Any other comments?”

Jacob and Elly hesitated—desperate, in truth, for the other to speak first, to unlock what they’d rehearsed privately all week. But silence won. The meeting ended, and the bitterness they’d carried in stayed carefully sealed inside.

As they stood to leave, Andy’s voice cut through the hush, tinged with weary disappointment:

“It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? You’re both so ready to speak—but only if you can pretend it’s just defending yourselves. It’s like no one here knows how to own anger unless someone else triggers it first. That’s why these meetings feel pointless.

He shook his head and walked out, leaving Jacob and Elly still staring at the scratched tabletop. Their unsaid words pressed painfully on their chests—caught between pride, fear, and the quiet tragedy of lives governed by reaction rather than choice. Outside, the street remained dim, as if even the town itself hesitated to illuminate what lay hidden in people’s hearts.

Toni Font, Aberdeen 11/07/2025

Impostor Syndrome in Academia

 

 Impostor Syndrome in Academia

    There I have spent five years in academia without doing a single written in-person assessment during either my undergraduate or postgraduate studies. In many cases—certainly not through any fault of my own, but rather due to the highly competitive environment—I have often felt like an impostor. Sometimes it’s just a microexpression, or the way someone asks a question, that can make me feel so overwhelmed that I’m unable to give a proper answer.

Fortunately, I’ve heard that written in-person assessments might return to the School. I believe this could help resolve these awkward situations. Honestly, I don’t think it’s anyone’s fault directly; it’s natural to feel suspicious or even slightly offended, especially when the assessment system doesn’t really allow you to demonstrate your abilities. Personally, I would be more than happy to participate in in-person assessments. In fact, I have always done everything within my power to show my academic progress—putting great effort into the presentations I’ve given, and also applying for extra-disciplinary opportunities like the undergraduate BPS conference and the postgraduate interdisciplinary event, both of which I took part in. I was also selected for another conference in Ireland, though unfortunately, I couldn’t attend.

I know my presentations weren’t perfect, but for me it is both essential and meaningful to show my academic development to an audience. I also understand that speaking confidently in front of others comes with practice—which is why I’ve been eager to seize every opportunity to develop these skills.

Speaking constructively, I truly believe the School of Psychology is on the right track if it brings back written in-person exams and assessments. This change could help reduce these awkward situations, which can unintentionally undermine trust between staff and students.

Toni Font, Aberdeen 04/07/2025