Rewriting the meeting between Pip and Magwitch in terms of Magwitch

The church always seemed like a flickering haze in line with the dull horizon, an unfathomable experience for a man
made even worse by the manacles manufactured from own despair and the cold, steel chains that bound him from
freedom. My father, wife to Martha Magwitch, (the wife of the above) always told me that only if you were that desperate
as if you were suffocating in half of Neptune’s waters, reaching in that almost fulfilling gasp of air, only then would you
ever be worthy of redemption, almost if I surrendered to its currents, and just let go. But I was to play the Roman fool,
exiled from such a numb, foggy sea of a past. Days, months, years, the strange tick of the desolate dusk and dawn all were
something of an age, lost in the distance of time. Now there is only poverty in my mortality, and no wealth in my shallow
soul. We are all in the end, broken players, of a broken stage, to the world, unworthy of desires and inseparable from the
vengeance from our past.
The river along the outpost sign of the church had seemed nothing but a glimmering array of stagnant horizontal lines, in
the shadows of crows extending from the crumbing grey scale branches, stripped of their last leaves and unholy stems,
exfoliating their black morning’s worth of work. There it was I saw my last grail of hope, “Hold your noise,” I yelled, the
boy who had seemed to just stand there, his sudden stillness in fallibility to run had given me the impression he were to be
a foolish boy. All in coarse cotton, with a great coat on his tout shoulders, and the moderately tinted boots.
“Tell us your name!” I growled with such drooling relish. “Quick!” I interrogated further, hoping that behind his eyes and
demeanor was something that would satiate my desperation of my weeks’ worth of a meal. “Pip. Pip, sir.” He said in his
shaking voice.
“Show us where you live,” I said. “Pint out the place!” he pointed to the others side of the church towards the village, a
side which I knew it would not be safe for me to go as to convict keepers would find me and Compeyson. In my panic I
turn him upside down, before he got a chance to say another word, emptying his bulky pockets. I gasp to almost what had
seemed to be a hallucination. Not a day goes by that sight of such bread reminded me of my mother’s bakery. I could taste
the sweet bitterness of glazing hot dough, scented with the roasted turmeric in its most soft feel.
“Now lookee here!” I said so timidly, craving for more “Where’s your mother?”
“There, sir!” said the young boy, as he pointed towards the opening of the churches doors. My heart tilts and an
irrevocable sense of impending doom arises, tenderly painful as I made a short run. “There, sir!” the boy exclaimed.
“Georgiana. That’s my mother,” as he pointed to the tombstone in carved with boys sorrow voice. I had a brief lapse in
thought, why would such a boy not let me run, knowing that I could be so dangerous to him? Was it wisdom in his
skepticism- or sheer naivety?
“Oh!” I beckoned, almost sorrowfully, coming back. “And is that your father along with your mother?”
“Yes, sir,” said he; “him too; late of this parish.”
“Ha!” I muttered unwilling to show any sympathy for the broken orphan of a boy. “Who d’ye live with — supposin’
you’re kindly let to live, which I han’t made up my mind about?”
“My sister, sir — Mrs. Joe Gargery — wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith, sir.”
“Blacksmith, eh?” said I as I grab his tight little arms, staring at his reddening puffing checks and tearing eyes, tilting him
as my eyes draw into his powerfully hopeless gaze. He had seemed to be nothing but I foolish little boy, that’s all the
giddy boy could be in such a moment.
I threatened the blacksmiths boy in a tremendous dip and roll, to bring me a file, and them fine wittles, tomorrow bright
and early, otherwise…
“Or I’ll have your heart and liver out.” I snarled heavily with my clenching teeth irrevocably titling him back and back
and back, feeling the helplessness of the boys shuddering fear. He runs away, in his upmost faltering pace, “Goo—good
night, sir.”
I begin to limp to the low church wall as his trembling, innocent legs ran off into the distance, it had occurred to me, how
could such an orphan, be so willing to help a man like me living in the façade of his aging past. Only then, did the
marshes seem so quiet and fragile, the crows silenced and removed from the blackening greyscale appearance of the dense
horizon intermixed with dull cavity of the cemetery. The river edge shortening as a moved away, and away from the
appearance of the lost souls still roaming at the edge of the river, almost limping their way for another chance at
redemption. My father would always tell me humanity never had a savior for children like him. That is why a weak,
powerless man will appreciate the value of strength and knows compassion.

Reflection:
At the heart of Charles Dickens 20th Century Gothic novel, ‘Great Expectations’ lies a skillful unification form, content
and construction which focuses on the issue of societal class and a quest for personal redemption. Magwitch’s past as a
thief makes him inevitably corrupt, however he yearns for change through his desire for redemption. During my reframing
of the meeting between Pip and Magwitch, I experimented with the use of the intertextual reference to Shakespeare’s
Macbeth, which was used to help create the suspenseful tone of the verse, “suffocating in half of Neptune’s waters… But I
was to play the Roman fool,” intended to provide insight for audiences into Magwitch’s past. This is inspired by Dickens
humanizing portrayal of Pip as a, “broken orphan of a boy,” galvanizing audiences of how Magwitch was significantly
influenced by his parental relationships. The recurrent motif of lost time, “poverty in my mortality” is made tangible in the
setting of the dented bleak landscape setting, “flickering haze in line with the dull horizon,” to elucidate how redemption
is an unknown reality known to Magwitch, yet to be found. Such a cautionary representation acts as a discursive space
that catalyzes audiences a renewed understanding of finding hope to change in all “dark souls” can be possible. Thus by
appreciating the Dickens masterful unity of form, my own rewritten version attempted to garner audience awareness of
the importance of finding redemption in our acts.

Dynamic texts such as Dickens G.E., promote understanding of the role of texts in engaging audiences, hence by
experimentally following an unconventional linguistic forms, writers can reshape their relationship with their readers to
actively create meaning. The deliberate reinvigoration of Magwitch’s characterization in the elusive animalistic imagery,
“growled with such drooling relish,” in compliment to the repeated array to his stream of consciousness, “wisdom in his
skepticism- or sheer naivety?,” when contrasted Dickens portrayal of social class, and how restrictive it was to Magwitch
in his ingenious use of the semiotic musings of self-identity allows for the pertinent awareness in the bitter symbolism,
“manacles… the cold, steel chains that bound him from freedom.” Such a broad cultivation of construction elucidates
Magwitch’s entrapment in societal hierarchy, where physical steel chains trap him into his past, without any sense of
redemption. This is sustained the insistent experimentation in the fragmented verse structure and minimal plot, “We are
all in the end broken players, of a broken stage,” to captivate the deep internal schisms of Magwitch’s nihilist portrayal.
This elucidates to readers the consequences of how indeed judgmental society can be in a backdrop of hierarchy, and thus
the need to avoid building a future world divorced of genuine human engagement.

By appreciating Dicken’s masterful unity of form, content and construction, it allows readers to evaluate the pertinence of
such texts as products of or existence. Such texts endure the test of time as they continue to demonstrate to us how to
function and co-exist as evident in the foreground of moral didacticisms. By entwining personal anecdotes along with the
stream of consciousness narration, “reminded me of my mother’s bakery,” I established the foundation for Magwitch to
find his redemption. I interwove the parental imagery in compliment to his father’s truism to build the moral didacticism,
“powerless man will appreciate the value of strength and knows compassion.” to not justify, but to explain his criminality,
elucidating how indeed it is possible to rekindle our lost humanity and initiate a redemptive process. However the
deliberate juxtaposition in the sinister imagery, “clenching teeth irrevocably titling him,” denies the audience of the
immersive verisimilitude experience of his social change. The manipulation of the inclusive language,” the façade of his
aging past,” is a verbal echo to Dickens meandering verses to create a sense of incompleteness magnetizing audiences
into the shocking reality of how we essentially a product of our societal classes. Audiences can further cherish the
metaphysical truths of our existence, where we are changeable and it is more important for us to understand what we are
becoming rather than what we are.

By Shayekh Abedin 12B- Diab/ Brendon