Saturday 16th August 2025
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Reading Oxford books in Oxford

Ngoc Diep
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Reading Oxford books in Oxford

For those who have not even set foot in Oxford, the city still lives in their imaginations alongside elite debates, candlelit balls and formals, tempestuous love stories, and mysterious, perhaps ever-existent secret societies.

But what if the stories came back to Oxford? What happens when the myths and tales about Oxford, carefully packaged in screens and pages, find their way back to an audience who are, in fact, living them?

Recently, Netflix has released a movie set in Oxford, titled My Oxford Year. It features a 22-year-old American girl heading to Oxford for the Master of English Literature thanks to the prestigious Rhodes Scholarship and then falling in love with a “smart-mouthed” local, so-called teaching assistant. 

The trailer made its way back to Oxford, and the Oxford Reddit immediately exploded with discussions. Several of my friends from Oxford shared the trailer on Instagram. While waiting for the film’s release, I decided to read the book which inspired it. This is my take on My Oxford Year: comparing it to other Oxford books, and considering whether it offers a distorted view or accurately depicts the Oxford experience.

Personally, as a girl who used to read and watch Oxford stories and movies in the hope of one day being part of that wonderland, I now find myself viewing with a very critical eye. I have divided Oxford fantasies into three categories: ‘Spot-On’, ‘Stretch of the Truth’, and finally ‘Straight-Up Fanfic’. To give you a sense of what I mean, I’ll place Surprised by Oxford, The Last Enchantments, and Beloved Oxford into those categories, respectively.

The first category, ‘Spot-On’, features what I consider to be the genuine Oxford. The ‘Spot-On’ book must capture both the historic setting of the old colleges and the emotional challenges of Imposter Syndrome found in Oxford. When depicting the fantastic relationships, it is worth mentioning devastating heartbreaks, too. Yes, there are fun drunken nights, but there must also be nights when you’re stuck writing in the college library until two in the morning. Surprised by Oxford is a memoir of Carolyn Weber, the first female dean of St Peter’s College. It is a story of an ordinary girl who works incredibly hard to get to Oxford, and once there, struggles with life, love, religious beliefs, and academic pursuits. It is ‘Spot-On’: I can understand the stress of the workload, the embarrassment in the first tutorial, and even the blush between the romantic lines. It beautifully depicts Oxford but also keeps the genuine Oxford student experience, which is not always rosy and perfect. 

Books falling into the second category, ‘Stretch of the Truth’,  are often written by those who have lived and studied in Oxford. Therefore, those books can depict the city and the University very well. However, the stories themselves do not properly resonate, as seen in The Last Enchantments by Charles Finch. It follows an American politician who comes to Oxford for a Master’s in English Literature and seeks to relive his university years. The book acknowledges its setting in the university and the town. Still, as the stories progress, with several drunk nights, hook-ups, dramas, and a lack of academic presence, Oxford becomes increasingly blurred, making it hard for readers to connect with the tales. It paints too perfect a picture. It just feels too privileged.

The third book, Beloved Oxford by Vietnamese romance writer Dương Thụy, is an example of the ‘Straight-Up Fanfic’ category, which is the least reliable. The book is intentionally sweetened with the Oxford title to draw in readers, even though it has nothing to do with Oxford, whether the town or the gown. Beloved Oxford is a lighthearted romance between a Vietnamese and a Portuguese Economics postgraduate student at Oxford. However, although the love story is set at Oxford, the only real “Oxford” moment is when the female lead muses that “the school is very prestigious” and she had to work hard. That’s it. 

So, what category does My Oxford Year belong to? 

To be honest, it is a typical romantic novel set in Oxford, featuring the cheesy ‘enemy-to-lover’ and ‘forbidden-love’ tropes. I find that the author accurately portrays Oxford, both the city and its traditions, as well as the experience of being an international student who struggles to understand Oxford and English customs. However, some points seem illogical, such as the main character’s background in political science being relevant to her receiving the Rhodes Scholarship for a Master’s in English Literature. 

I would tentatively classify My Oxford Year in the second category, ‘Stretch of the Truth’, closely bordering on the ‘Spot-On’ category. The book is amusing to read, and the author tries to capture the student experience in ways that I could relate to so much. I did some research and found that the author attended Oxford as a visiting student, like me, perhaps even in the same programme. 

Talking to other Oxford students about My Oxford Year, I find it interesting that there’s a contrast in reactions between matriculated and visiting students regarding the book and the movie adaptation. Matriculated students often feel irritated when they see their cherished University, parks, and city distorted to fit stereotypes associated with Oxford.“It would be like Emily in Paris, but Emily is funnier”, a friend of mine, a DPhil graduate, shared. “Netflix is milking Oxford the same way they milked Paris.”

Meanwhile, visiting students adopt a more accepting attitude; some shout “stop milking content from Oxford”, but others genuinely enjoy watching and reading them. 

“I don’t need to see the movie to know it will be ridiculous, but I don’t mind watching it again and again, enjoying spotting the names of the buildings in the background each time”, a visiting student who had already returned to the United States after a semester at Oxford shared with me. “It is the nostalgia of the place you used to love that matters.”

When the movie was finally out on August 1st, I was excited to see it, only to be buried in disappointment later. 

The movie does the book a disservice. 

As the 300-page book is condensed into a one-and-a-half-hour film, it omits many of Oxford’s key selling points, from the intellectual rapport between the characters to their development. Jamie, the male lead, becomes a playboy, wealthy, and privileged instead of being witty, playful, but deeply thoughtful. Likewise, Anna from New York (or Ella from Ohio in the book), the female lead, is portrayed as flirty and sexy rather than independent, goal-oriented, and opinionated. In the book, the two are drawn to each other by coincidence and then connect academically and emotionally; the movie, however, depicts their relationship as merely lustful. 

Nonetheless, both Jamie and Anna are made younger. Anna, a recent university graduate, has just secured a position at Goldman Sachs instead of spending years working on political campaigns. She also did not win the Rhodes Scholarship as in the book. In the new movie, Jamie is still a DPhil student, while in the book, he was more mature, had completed his DPhil at “the other place” (Cambridge) and was returning to Oxford for a postdoctoral fellowship. 

I would rank the movie below the book, just below ‘Stretch of the Truth’. My Oxford Year represents the most romanticised version of Oxford, the one seen on postcards and Instagram feeds. In this version, every Oxonian is either naturally brilliant or impossibly wealthy, navigating life without the burden of hard work. They always seem to have time for long, philosophical walks with friends or wine-soaked dinners in candlelit halls and mock pubs. Their wardrobes? Effortlessly perfect with Anna, mostly always in shirts and gowns. It’s an Oxford of effortless charm and privilege, stunning to behold but far removed from the messy, often exhausting reality of the place.As an Oxford visiting student, I could not bear watching My Oxford Year. Perhaps one day, long after I have left, I will be able to watch it and smile to recognise the city I used to love. But for now, I would rather live my Oxford year than watch someone else’s imagined one.

Netflix’s city of dreaming Americans: My Oxford Year, reviewed

Franca Haug
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Netflix’s city of dreaming Americans: My Oxford Year, reviewed

If not taken too seriously, Netflix’s new movie My Oxford Year is a surprisingly good time, despite its cliché storyline. The rom-com, starring Sofia Carson and Corey Mylchreest, has many amusing moments and some fun performances.

The plot is relatively simple: Anna, a girl from New York City, comes to Oxford University for a one-year Master’s degree. After an awkward run-in with a rude British man, she soon discovers he’s her new seminar teacher, Jamie. After some flirty classes and a drunken night in a pub, they begin dating, but Jamie has a secret that threatens to derail their love… So far, so familiar.

In spite of its formulaic plot, the movie is genuinely fun to watch. It’s pretty humorous, likely thanks to director Iain Morris, best known for co-creating The Inbetweeners. The comedic relief is delivered through short quips: for example, when Anna storms off mid-episode of Naked Attraction to submit an assignment and her friend deadpans: “My God, she’s keen. She’s left before they revealed the penises.” There are also many instances of situational humour, like when Anna tries to make Jamie jealous at a Halloween party by dancing provocatively with a posh rower, while the latter is just having the time of his life dancing, utterly oblivious to her plan. Moreover, the movie manages to draw the viewer in with some great performances. Dougray Scott, in his role as Jamie’s father, is a standout. His depiction of grief and anger is thoroughly moving. Finally, the movie’s soundtrack is likely to appeal to a modern audience, featuring artists like Chappell Roan and Troye Sivan.

That said, a few changes could have significantly improved the movie. First, less poetry. Or, let’s be honest, no poetry at all. Since Jamie is Anna’s poetry teacher, the viewer is constantly subjected to cringy scenes of them reciting poems to each other. This adds nothing to the plot, comes across as incredibly pretentious, and is just painful to watch.

Second, the film would have benefited from a different lead actress. Sofia Carson, who is best known for her Disney roles (most notably Descendants), delivers an incredibly bland performance. Whether it was the direction or a personal choice, her acting consists almost exclusively of making flirty eyes at everyone and talking in a ‘seductive’ tone. This boring performance is worsened by the fact that Anna has no discernible personality – other than being an American, of course. 

Finally, the film could have done without the romanticisation of student-teacher relationships. Rather than exploring the complex dynamics and power inequalities in-depth, it comes across like a cheap attempt to introduce scandal into the story.

Nevertheless, as an Oxford student, the film provides a special kind of entertainment because it allows for a game of Spot the Difference. Even though the people involved in writing My Oxford Year definitely had some insight into Oxford student life – for example, perfectly depicting the specific geekiness of a certain type of male student that might use “I can teach you to unicycle” as a pick-up line – multiple small details are wrong. The movie includes many famous Oxford locations, from the Pitt Rivers Museum to Turf Tavern and several different colleges. However, keen-eyed viewers will easily notice incoherences: misaligned locations, the characters walking in the wrong direction, and roads that are missing the familiar crowds of tourists. Lanyards are too short, Oxford wins the boat race against Cambridge, and the characters go to a Greek van called ‘Dimitri’s’ rather than Hassan’s or Najar’s for a late-night snack. 

The most peculiar detail of the movie is its depiction of what it’s like being an American student at Oxford. They keep mentioning her nationality as if it were something exotic and unheard of. However, with around 8% of the total student body coming from the US, that just doesn’t reflect the actual experience.

So, is My Oxford Year a masterpiece? Absolutely not. But if you have a relatively high cringe tolerance and a fun group of friends to watch it with, you’re in for a great time.

Lacking Latin: Ceremonial mistakes in My Oxford Year

Honcques Laus
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Lacking Latin: Ceremonial mistakes in My Oxford Year

My Oxford Year, a new Netflix rom-com, has received considerable attention. Yet as a scholar of the University of Oxford, ​​I feel obliged to assess how accurately the film represents the Oxford ceremony and tradition. In what follows, I will highlight its failings as well as a few successes.

Master of Arts at Oxford is not an academic degree

The film erroneously presents the Master of Arts (MA) from Oxford as a postgraduate academic degree. For instance, Jamie Davenport addresses Anna De La Vega as an “MA scholar”. In fact, the MA at Oxford is not an academic degree which can be studied or examined, but a mark of seniority conferred, typically 21 terms after matriculation, on graduates who have completed the undergraduate Bachelor’s degree. 

I emphasise that it is an undergraduate Bachelor’s degree as Oxford offers postgraduate Bachelor’s degrees, such as BPhil and BCL which do not entitle graduates to an MA. Postgraduate Master’s degrees at Oxford are definitely not MA but may be MPP, MFA, MBA, MTh, MSt, MPhil, MSc, or the like. In the subsequent scene, Anna is in a black gown with crimson silk in her graduation ceremony. The gown in which Anna is attired is the MA gown but she is not entitled to an MA at that moment, as she earns her postgraduate degree at Oxford without an undergraduate Bachelor’s degree from the very same University. If she completes her MSt in English Language and Literature, she should wear a black gown consisting of deep green art silk with white art silk. An MA from Oxford reflects ceremonial seniority but does not constitute an academic qualification for which we may study.

Classical Latin should be featured in matriculation ceremony

The matriculation ceremony in the film lacks Classical Latin. In the actual ceremony, the Senior Dean introduces students with “Insignissime Vice-Cancellarie (or Insignissima Vice-Cancellaria for a female Vice-Chancellor), praesentamus tibi hos nostros scholares ut referantur in Matriculam Universitatis”. The Vice-Chancellor replies “Scitote vos in Matriculam Universitatis hodie relatos esse, et ad observandum omnia Statuta istius Universitatis, quantum ad vos spectent, teneri.” It is undoubtedly a regrettable shame that the film, in toto, omits Classical Latin, which is one of the most vital ceremonial elements.

Matriculation is not a solitary journey

The film depicts Anna walking alone for her matriculation ceremony. But students, in fact, head to the Sheldonian Theatre in a group arranged by their college during a designated slot. For example, in Michaelmas Term 2024, students from Christ Church College, Lady Margaret Hall, and New College matriculate at 10:30am whereas those from Brasenose College, Regent’s Park College, and Wycliffe Hall do so at 1:30pm. Walking students are accompanied by their Dean of Degrees while Proctors stand outside the Sheldonian Theatre to manage entry. It is a pity that the film neglects these details.

College balls should take place in college

A college ball is, ex vi termini, a college matter and should surely take place in the college. For instance, a ball for Magdalen College should certainly be held at Magdalen College. But the film depicts Anna and her friends attending a college ball not at their own college, nor even in Oxford but, at a distance of approximately 47 miles away, at Knebworth House in Hertfordshire. In addition to this geographical inaccuracy, the film commits the further mistake of implying that Magdalen College is 750 years old when the college has not yet attained that milestone. The instances of inaccuracy induce me to practically forget that the film is even supposed to be based in Oxford.

Proper sub fusc

The film does not, nevertheless, get everything wrong. I will now focus on some of its more successful moments. To its credit, the film accurately displays the sub fusc. Anna and other students appropriately wear (1) a plain white collared shirt or blouse with sleeves, (2) a dark skirt with either black tights or stockings, or dark trousers with black socks, (3) a white bow tie, black bow tie, black full-length tie, or black ribbon, (4) an appropriate academic gown with (5) a mortar board or soft cap. As a postgraduate student, Anna is clothed in the advanced student gown and abides by the rules, such as ensuring that socks, tights, or stockings entirely cover the ankle with no gap between the bottom of the trouser leg or skirt and the top of the socks, tights, or stockings. It is remarkable that the film meticulously sticks to the regulations relating to academic dress but remains miserably oblivious to the nature of the MA (Oxon) or the procedure for matriculation day.

Matriculation and graduation at Sheldonian Theatre

In contrast to Mamma Mia: Here We Go Again, which inaccurately sets a graduation ceremony in a constituent college, My Oxford Year properly places both the matriculation and graduation ceremonies at the Sheldonian Theatre. The University ceremony is per se a matter for the entire University, not simply for the college. The film also illustrates the Dean of Degrees for each college wearing an MA gown in the matriculation ceremony no matter if the dean possesses a superior degree such as a DPhil. Such atypical conformity in the film may eventually echo, to a certain extent, the painted ceiling of Sheldonian Theatre, which depicts ignorance being expelled.

DPhil rather than PhD

The film pays particular attention to the extraordinary terminology used at Oxford. Notably, the film properly uses the abbreviation DPhil, instead of PhD used elsewhere, for Doctor of Philosophy. Professor Styan, for instance, calls Jamie “my annoyingly brilliant DPhil student”. This faithfully reflects the distinct nomenclature of Oxford.

Conclusion

To recapitulate, My Oxford Year is deficient in its depiction of some areas of Oxford ceremony, and tradition. The defects discredit the authenticity of the film. Moving forwards, should directors producing films about Oxford endeavour to avoid repeating the same mistakes, they would benefit from seeking the counsel from a scholar of the University of Oxford like myself.

How radio changed the literary landscape: The Bodleian’s ‘Listen In’

Nancy Gittus
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How radio changed the literary landscape: The Bodleian’s ‘Listen In’

“Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt our program of dance music to bring you a special bulletin from the Intercontinental Radio News. At 20 minutes before 8, central time, Professor Farrell of the Mount Jennings Observatory, Chicago, Illinois, reported observing several explosions of incandescent gas, occurring at regular intervals on the planet Mars.”

These were the lines that opened Orson Welles’ radio adaptation of The War of the Worlds. He decided to produce the programme in a journalistic style, with ‘breaking news’ interruptions, live reporting, and eye-witness testimonies. Those who had, unfortunately for them, tuned in too late to hear the disclaimer announcement at the beginning of the show, descended into panic, believing they were listening to the live report of an alien invasion. Phone lines became jammed as thousands of fearful citizens phoned into newspapers, and even the police. Although part-apocryphal, this story still stands as a testament to radio’s power and influence, as demonstrated by the Bodleian’s current exhibition Listen In: How the Radio Changed the Home in the Weston Library.

Throughout this installation, curator Beaty Rubens takes a different approach to the radio, attempting to examine its impact on listeners, rather than examining the story once more through the lens of broadcasters. The Bodleian’s vast resources, including excerpts from contemporary magazines, books, and even cartoons, are employed to explore how radio impacted family life during the interwar years, and to illuminate the opinions of those who lived through its introduction. 

One of the major points spotlighted by the resulting exhibition is the extent to which the radio enriched the lives of women, who, stuck in strict ideals of domesticity, often felt lonely and isolated from the world outside. The radio is an immediate, intimate medium of communication, and many writers since have revelled in this effect, producing moving, poignant narratives. Dylan Thomas made particular use of this effect in his audio drama Under Milk Wood, a work which draws the listener into the dreams of the inhabitants of Llareggub, a small fictional Welsh village. Through different voices Thomas highlights the universal themes of his play: nostalgia, community, and love.

More recently, Susann Maria Hempel’s radio play Auf der Suche nach den verlorenen Seelenatomen (In Search of the Lost Soul Atoms) recited, in song, her record of conversations with a former political prisoner of the German Democratic Republic to create an intense emotional charge. It is, perhaps, her full use of radio’s capacity to bring an immediacy to the performance that won her play the ‘Radio Play of the Year Award’ from the German Academy of the Performing Arts.

It is not only radio’s intimacy which has attracted writers, but also the very opposite: its potential as an instrument of mass media. In 1939 there were nearly 9 million radio licence-holders in Britain, making it an attractive prospect for writers, such as T.S. Eliot, who believed in the ideal of a cultural community. Eliot first appeared on the radio in the late 1920s with a series of talks focusing on English poetry. He subsequently delivered over 82 programmes in the course of the next 35 years, making cultural education accessible to millions. The influence of this medium on his own poetry is visible throughout ‘The Waste Land’, whose polyphonic structure lent itself perfectly to the radio format when broadcasted in 1946. This advocacy for the radio as a tool for cultural enrichment rather undermines critics, such as John Carey, who accuse Eliot and other modernists of elitism. 

Clearly, and as the Bodleian Libraries’ exhibit shows, the rise of the radio opened people – particularly women – up to literature and culture on a greater scale and to a greater extent than had ever been done before. This legacy continues in programmes such as Radio 4’s Book Club, A Good Read and Take Four Books: these shows give listeners the opportunity to explore the lives of their favourite writers, hear from authors about the writing process, and engage in lively discussion about interesting books. 

It is, however, not all roses and sunshine for the radio play. Although the BBC recently introduced a new, 90-minute monthly slot on Radio 4 for audio dramas, this was only achieved after a lengthy campaign against their decision to remove all audio drama from Radio 3. In this age of television and TikTok, it is hard for the radio to compete, and yet there’s no other medium that allows people who are visually impaired, have dyslexia, or trouble focusing over long periods, to access literature. No other medium which allows you to commute to work, do the washing up, or take the dog for a walk, whilst immersing yourself in a literary creation. 

Radio also spawned a whole world of audio narration and literary discussion. From Stephen Fry’s narration of Harry Potter to The Book Review, the popularity of audiobooks and podcasts has skyrocketed in the past few years, and it owes this success to the radio. Listen In may highlight radio’s impact on home life, but that on the literary world is clearly also ubiquitous. And the exhibition’s heavy use of written material in its examination of contemporary attitudes demonstrates the reciprocal importance of literature in promoting radio.

It seems almost as if we’ve gone full circle. We moved from medieval storytellers and court jesters, to manuscripts and the novel, only to come back round once again to oral narration. From Book at Bedtime to The Archers, we seem hardwired to love listening in: these two programmes alone reach over six million listeners weekly. After all, there’s something personal about an audio drama. It is as if the narrator is speaking only to you, as if they’ve chosen you to confide in. Each voice, a real voice, makes the characters almost tangible. Audio drama brings a story alive, quite literally. 

Listen In: How Radio Changed the Home is on at the Weston Library until the 31st August, with free admission.

Lindsay Skoll announced as new Jesus Principal

Laurence Cooke
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Lindsay Skoll announced as new Jesus Principal

Jesus College have announced that British diplomat Lindsay Skoll will take up the role of Principal from next year. She is the first woman to be elected to the position in the College’s history. 

Skoll has been HM Ambassador to Austria since 2021, and will succeed Professor Sir Nigel Shadbolt in leading the College. The researcher, known for interdisciplinary work in artificial  (AI) and web science, will retire after eleven years in post. 

A graduate of the University of Nottingham, Skoll has had a long career in international relations. Currently, the UK Permanent Representative to the UN in Vienna, she was recognised in the 2019 New Year’s Honours List. 

She has previously worked in Russia, the Seychelles, and North Korea as Deputy Head of Mission. In 2016, she led the UK Government response to the Zika Virus epidemic. 

One Jesus student told Cherwell that “the tutors involved in selecting Lindsay were very excited about a lot of their options, so she must have stood out as a really fantastic choice for the College”. 

The same student noted intrigue among the student body about the potential for a future college dog, given the presence of a furry friend on Skoll’s Instagram page. 

Skoll will join Jesus College in August 2026. Other new heads of house elected for next summer include Professor of English Seamus Perry at Balliol College. 
In the shorter term, CEO of Royal Society of Medicine Michele Acton will join St Hugh’s College as Principal in September, succeeding former Chancellor candidate Elish Angiolini.

Highway Elegies: Living Bruce Springsteen’s ballads

Cici Zhang
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Highway Elegies: Living Bruce Springsteen’s ballads

A tantalising balance of folk, country, soul, and rock ’n’ roll, Bruce Springsteen is a master storyteller. His songs are ballads in the strictest sense of the word: almost every track narrates a story.  

In calling Springsteen’s songs ‘elegies’, I do not only mean that these stories explore sorrow. These songs tackle sorrow by remembering and honouring the complex narratives of those who suffered. They commemorate, protect, and preserve stories. 

Springsteen eulogises blue-collar America. He writes ballads about working in factories, on the highway, navigating union construction jobs in order to pay the bills. His lyrics are delivered from the perspectives of working class women and men, outlaws, and estranged families. From Darkness on the Edge of Town (1978) onwards, Springsteen’s music delivers a vision of America’s fragility during the 70s and 80s.

‘Factory’ heralds the workers whose lives are consumed by labour. ‘The River’ is the story of teenagers pulled into marriage too early by an unexpected pregnancy. ‘Used Cars’ expresses the aspirations of a boy who longs to win the lottery and relieve his parents of an asphyxiating financial burden. ‘The Price You Pay’ addresses guilt and bewilderment in the aftermath of the Vietnam War. In the midst of economic, political, and emotional crises, these are all songs that interrogate and undermine the American Dream. From the desolate Midwest to the Utah desert, the notion of a ‘promised land’ haunts communities. It is an ideal slowly being eroded from within. 

Above all, these are stories of escape. They take place on the run. They are delivered by speakers who long to break free from cycles of generational trauma and poverty, from the stifling confines of small-town life, from the poison of regrets and lost loves. The speaker of ‘Highway Patrolman’, Joe Roberts, pulls over in his cruiser and watches Frankie escape across the Canadian border to absolve himself of the pain of having to arrest his own brother. “Independence Day” of The River (1980) rips my heart open as a son, on the eve of departing from home, acknowledges the wounded relationship he has with his father: “They can’t touch me now, and you can’t touch me now, they ain’t gonna do to me what I watched them do to you.” 

I find ‘Bobby Jean’ of Born in the U.S.A. (1970) devastatingly beautiful not only because it depicts the sweet sublimity of teenage friendship, but because it is a song about escape. The speaker sings of a friend whom he treasured through his high-school years, in hopes that she may hear him and remember him: “I’m just calling one last time, not to change your mind – but to say I miss you, baby.” In this elegy, he pursues a girl who left him behind to chase her own dreams. He grieves her absence all the while respecting her decision to find freedom. 

The highway, in Springsteen’s writing, is a site of freedom and desolation. As these characters thirst for freedom, they are equally paralysed by the fear of change. These are songs about how big and empty the world is when there’s no one left to holler you home. The only thing left is chasing the people and the things we love. We can never hold onto them tightly enough. 

There’s a ragged hope in even the saddest of Springsteen’s lyrics. There’s a strange, volatile beauty in the hunger of wanting as we lose ourselves in a ruthless pursuit, claiming our delusions even when what we want could never be ours. The chase – your foot down on the gas, the wind lashed through your hair, bloodshot eyes on the horizon – is what makes this large, loveless world worth it. 

But what, exactly, is this world that Springsteen writes about? Much as these songs speak on behalf of communities, the experiences they express are not generalised. These are not commentaries, manifestos, on behalf of a group or a nation. These are stories. Each song tackles not a universal tragedy but the ‘little world’ of a human being. 

Springsteen’s narratives are preoccupied with individuals, with characters. His storytelling brings to mind not only elegy, but epic. These characters are defined by their economic and socio-political circumstances. But they are also defined by pain and joy, by love and loathing. They are concerned with the smallness of life: with food, with woodwork, with electricity, with the basic pleasure of splitting a bottle of beer with a lover at sunset.

The River (1980) is my favorite album not only for its woeful ballads, but also for its more lighthearted, licentious songs such as ‘Sherry Darling’, ‘Out on the Street”’ and ‘Ramrod’. These are ballads of snarky, hot-headed young boys serenading women. This is youth before it could tell the difference between lust and love. When I close my eyes to the music, I savor how vividly Springsteen conveys that world to us. It’s a hot summer evening, and our blood is on fire. 

These characters loved and raged and lived. They ate, danced, laughed, and mourned. They built highways, and mended roofs, and felt the wind in their hair. Their stories are no less glorious than they are ordinary. They are, in a sense, epic. 

I’m a cynic. But Springsteen breaks down my defenses. He’s the chink in my armour. I cannot bring myself to believe that anything but love could’ve produced the eight-minute epic, ‘Drive All Night’, a song so achingly intimate it makes me falter before my next step, my next task, my next turn of the page. I want the world to rest a little just for the span of a song. The soft wail of a saxophone beckons me into a sleepy solace where all rationality may dissolve, step after tottering step, into the night’s velvet. The drumbeat keeps time. A voice croons. This is love, I think, and this is what it feels like to love someone with a bass and a few bars of piano. 

I’m a coward. I want to jump from the cliff, to put my bare, breakable heart on the line, to be the wildest, wiliest that I can be – but to do these things is scary, and I am scared often. I want to do the brave thing, the thing that leaves me torn in pieces on jagged rocks because I dared to jump.

It is this razor-sharp edge between terror and the sublime at the heart of ‘Dancing in the Dark’. The song expresses that bravery is vulnerability. In the midst of desperation and catharsis, ‘Dancing in the Dark’ acknowledges that to be vulnerable in the act of loving is the bravest thing anyone could do. Springsteen reminds me, every time, of what I need to remember: that you could never really live if you sit around crying over a broken heart, or worrying about your little world falling apart. He reminds me that I can start my own fires. 

Springsteen’s highway elegies are songs about ‘little worlds’. And what is each of us, if not a little world? These songs are grounded in the culture and social landscapes in which they are set, but the extraordinary mundanity in the lyrics’ narratives transcends boundaries of time, space, nation, and belief. Springsteen tells us that the long, open road that is our life is not only a site of sorrow but of limitless possibility. Go on and live, he says. Drive all night. Be true, be brave. Take the highway by storm. Keep chasing. Remember, in the end, that you were born to run. 

Oxford University Press ceases publication of Chinese-owned journal following ethical concerns

Arina Makarina
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Oxford University Press ceases publication of Chinese-owned journal following ethical concerns

Oxford University Press (OUP) will cease the publication of the Forensic Sciences Research (FSR) journal following concerns about ethical standards, including the DNA collection of China’s Uyghur population in Xinjiang region.

According to a statement published on the journal’s website, FSR will no longer be published by OUP after the 2025 volume. 

The journal is owned by China’s Academy of Forensic Science, which is accountable to China’s Ministry of Justice. The academy describes FSR as “the only English quarterly journal in the field of forensic science in China that focuses on forensic medicine”. OUP took over as publisher of FSR in 2023. 

Writing in response to the end of the relationship with OUP, Duarte Nuno Veira, one of the editors of FSR, said: “The future of Forensic Sciences Research is unwritten –but its foundations are strong, its community vibrant, and its vision clear.”

Several papers in FSR attracted concerns over ethical considerations, as they analysed genetic data from heavily surveilled ethnic minorities in China, particularly Uyghurs. The papers were initially spotted by Yves Moreau, a Professor of Engineering at KU Leuven, a Belgian university, who focused on investigating Chinese researchers’ compliance with ethical standards in studies of genetic data from vulnerable groups.

A 2022 study used blood samples from 264 Uyghurs in Ürümqi, Xinjiang region in north-west China. According to the study, blood samples were collected “with written informed consent” and “subsequently anonymized”. 

The Guardian notes reports of Xinjiang authorities collecting DNA samples from millions of Uyghurs “under the guise of health checks, but which Uyghurs and human rights groups have said are compulsory and designed to enhance surveillance”.

In late 2023 OUP published an “expression of concern” over an article in FSR published in September 2020. Two later articles in the journal raised “further concerns” in January 2024. According to OUP, this prompted an investigation regarding the three articles. OUP retracted the two papers published in FSR due to ethical concerns. Several researchers in each case came from Chinese police authorities.

OUP was approached for comment.

The girl who lived

Ava Doherty
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The girl who lived

Like Harry Potter under the stairs, I was ‘the one who lived’. A rainbow baby (a baby born after loss), wrapped in nappies and layers of meaning and expectation. Unlike Harry, I didn’t get a letter from Hogwarts. I got a Netflix password made from my dead brother’s birthday.

There were four of them. Four boys who did not make it. My parents carried that grief like a second skin. Loss became part of the family’s familiar, brutal, ritualised rhythm. Every year on 6th December, they would go to Westminster Cathedral and light a candle for Gerrard. He was the one they thought would survive. He was named after Steven Gerrard – nominative determinism was alive and well in the hearts of die-hard Liverpool dads. I didn’t just arrive as a child blinking into the light. I arrived as a symbol.

This came with certain privileges – unrelenting love, slightly excessive birthday fanfare, and a sense that I was living not just for myself but for four others. But it also carried a heavy psychic weight. My existence was stitched together with joy and grief, miracle and mourning. Try putting that on your UCAS application.

Even as a toddler, I knew I was being watched with the anxiety of someone who had been burned before. I was swaddled in care, yes, but also in fear. My mum, who had already endured too many obstetric failures, was failed again by a healthcare system that couldn’t give her answers or the dignity she deserved. I saw the old footage of my birth. I know what she went through. Many women still go through it, often quietly and invisibly. Some things, it seems, like underfunded NHS wards, are as British as bad weather.

So I grew up under this strange emotional weather system: the sun of survival with the ever-present cloud of what had come before me. I tried to include my brothers in conversations. “Do you have any siblings?” people would ask. “Yes”, I’d say brightly, “Four. But they’re all dead.” That tends to kill the vibe at a freshers’ brunch. People fumble, awkwardly polite. Those close to grief never quite know where to look. By the time I got to my second term at university, I’d stopped mentioning them. Not because I cared less, but because in this hothouse of ambition and performative nonchalance, there didn’t seem to be room for vulnerability. I didn’t want to be reduced to a walking metaphor for grief. I wanted to be clever, witty, mysterious. Just me, not ‘the girl who lived’.

But the past is never past. It lives in repetition, rituals, and deep grooves of fear that shape your sense of self. My mother’s anxiety became part of my emotional DNA. Her loss filtered into my worldview before I could even name it. The grief she tried to hide still spoke to me in silence. That’s the thing with trauma: it communicates itself even when no one articulates it. 

This pressure isn’t mine alone. Every rainbow baby I’ve spoken to over coffee or in tipsy late-night heart-to-hearts has felt it. Each carries a strange, quiet weight, a need to prove that survival wasn’t meaningless. Some of us overachieve, trying to be ‘worth it’. Some self-sabotage, because how could we ever be ‘enough’? Either way, the weight remains.

Carrie Symonds once wrote honestly about miscarriage and the complex joy of having a rainbow baby. She described how grief and happiness coexist in ways brutal to explain, and how pain can be a quiet shadow beneath every smile. In a world where women’s pain is often minimised or weaponised, saying “this hurt” is an act of rebellion. Her words made me feel seen not only as someone longed for, but as someone born from both love and loss.

And it’s not just about babies. It’s about all of us asked, silently or explicitly, to carry the legacies of those who couldn’t finish the race. The first-gen student who was told to “make the most” of the sacrifice. The refugee child whose parents risked everything. The younger sibling of someone who took their own life. We are everywhere: grateful, guilty, quietly exhausted.

But maybe we don’t have to be symbols. Maybe we don’t have to walk redemption arcs. Maybe we can just be people, messy, flawed, and imperfect at football despite being named after Steven Gerrard (sorry, Dad). It may be enough to merely live.

Still, I light the candle. I remember the names. I carry the stories, not because I have to, but because I want to. Sometimes, in the flicker of that flame, I see the truth: love and loss are just two sides of the same coin. Somehow, we are all the girls or boys who lived.

The art of snacking in an ingredient household

Hannah Cowley
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The art of snacking in an ingredient household

There’s something quite liminal about being a student. One minute you’re running around a city feeling like a Grown Up, and then suddenly it’s June, and you’re catapulted right back into your childhood bedroom, banging on the wall because your brother’s PlayStation is too loud. It really isn’t all bad, though. One of the things I love about coming home is the comforting rhythm of the weekly meal rotation. My mum happens to be a meal planner extraordinaire, which I took for granted until I was burdened with the horrendous task of having to work out what I fancy for dinner.  

Don’t get me wrong, I genuinely love cooking. Nothing silences the screaming void quite like finely dicing an onion. But thinking of what to cook? Not for me. Over the past few years, I have lost several thousand brain cells scrolling Instagram looking for inspiration, and, one desperate evening, I even turned to a BuzzFeed quiz called ‘Would you Rather: Dinner Edition’. When I’m at home, though, I don’t have to bother with any of that decision-making malarkey. I simply wander downstairs and chop up whatever I’m told to chop up until a vat of spag bol appears.  

Things get a little iffy on the food front, however, in between meals. I am a big-time grazer. One of life’s great snackers. I must feed every two hours, or I become a terrible monster. Alas, when my 8pm hunger hits and I wander downstairs looking for a snack, there is never anything to be found, no matter how many times I open and close the cupboard doors. This is because I live in an ingredient household, which, according to my own criteria, means: 

  1. Your so-called ‘snack cupboard’ contains several types of nuts and seeds (mine currently houses six, if you were curious). Perhaps there’s a packet of crackers floating around, if you’re lucky. 
  2. You grew up begging your friends to share their KitKats with you at lunchtime. (They refused because you could only offer them a few segments of your Easy Peeler in return.) 
  3. Your Dad only eats chocolate if it’s 90% cocoa and tastes like soil.  

The easy remedy to this is, well, pre-empting your need for a sweet treat, pottering down to the shops, and buying yourself some biscuits. But if it’s late and the shops are closed, or you want to feel a sense of accomplishment and have something a bit braggy to post on your Instagram story, here are some ways to embrace the ingredient.  

The key to snacking in an ingredient household is seeing the potential in a sad-looking fruit bowl. One night, just as I was about to leave the kitchen hangry and empty-handed, I spotted some oranges. Luckily, I had spent my day watching old Bon Appetit videos on YouTube, so I knew exactly what to make: Crepes Suzette. It sounds much fancier than it actually is, I promise – essentially, it’s just pancakes bathed in orange sauce. I eyeballed the crepe batter, which I think worked out just fine, even though my mum did say that they were “quite chewy” (whoops). The sauce traditionally has some sort of alcohol in it, allowing the pancakes to be lightly flambéed at the end, but I neither had a bottle of Grand Marnier lying around, nor did I fancy singeing off my eyebrows, so I skipped that part. It was honestly very easy to throw together, sated my need for a sweet treat, with the additional satisfaction that I’d made a dish with a French name.  

My biggest snack inspirations currently are the influencers who chuck various bits and bobs from the fridge together and call the finished product a ‘snack plate’. The snack plates of Instagram frequently contain ingredients on the expensive side – think caviar and lots of oily fermented things – but don’t let them fool you! Snack plates are just picky bits, things you find lying around in your kitchen. Chop up some fruit and fan it out nicely! Add a dollop of peanut butter or jam or tzatziki! Dip a sad carrot in it! Have a hunk of bread and cheese! Olives, silverskin pickled onions, hard-boiled eggs: all of these things can go on a snack plate.  

Lastly, a word on mug cakes. I understand their place. I, however, think that if you’re making a mug cake, you might as well just go the whole hog and make a cake that isn’t disgusting. If you make something like banana bread or apple cake, you can ditch icings, glazes, and fillings and enjoy the cake warm. Happy snacking! 

Oxford’s Labour and Liberal societies urge the Government to be ‘on the right side of history’ in statement on Gaza

Conor Walsh and Arina Makarina
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Oxford’s Labour and Liberal societies urge the Government to be ‘on the right side of history’ in statement on Gaza

The Oxford Students Liberal Association (OSLA) and the Oxford Labour Club (OLC) have released a joint statement on the conflict in the Gaza Strip, calling for the UK to “be on the right side of history”. The statement was posted on the societies’ Instagram accounts earlier today.

In the statement, OSLA and OLC have called out the UK Government for being “increasingly complicit in the crimes against humanity being perpetuated in Gaza”. Whilst OSLA and OLC note their support for Israel’s “right to defend itself against terrorism”, they condemn Israel’s actions, stating that they do not support “the mass killing of civilians, the withholding of vital medical and food aid or the banning of foreign journalists”.

OSLA and OLC “wish to see an immediate bilateral ceasefire and a total withdrawal of the illegal settlements in the West Bank”. The statement calls on the UK government to: remove all outstanding arms licenses to Israel, sanction the Israeli state, and recognise an independent state of Palestine.

Gaza is currently enduring one of the world’s largest humanitarian crises. In May, acting in his new role as Under-Secretary-General for Humanitarian Affairs and Emergency Relief, former Hertford College Principal Tom Fletcher called upon the United Nations to act “decisively – to prevent genocide in Gaza”. 

In a cross-party letter to the Prime Minister, Sir Keir Starmer, several Members of Parliament also called upon the UK government last week to recognise Palestine as an independent state, following in the footsteps of France and Ireland.

The last time OSLA and OLC released a joint statement on the conflict in the Gaza Strip was in May 2024. The statement did not address the moral responsibility of the UK Government or its involvement in the conflict.

Cherwell understands that the Oxford University Conservative Association (OUCA) was invited to sign the statement, but has not done so.

OUCA told Cherwell: “Due to the limited time available, it was not possible for OUCA to conduct the appropriate democratic consultation required for us to sign this statement.”

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