The Writer KB

In truth, his reclusiveness is both a cause and a symptom of his illness. Within the first chapter of the book, the six-year-old Scout and her brother Jem already recognise the harsh reality of Boo’s existence, saying “The misery of that house began many years before Jem and I were born”. Within the course of the narrative the reader learns that Boo wasn’t always a recluse, but that his isolation is forced upon him by his father. Boo was once a teenager with friends and a social life, who had gotten in with the wrong crowd, resulting in a criminal incident and a legal sentencing to industrial school. A punishment deemed unworthy by Boo’s father. While the others involved went to the school and got a top-rate education, Boo Radley was released in order to be punished by Mr. Radley and was not seen again for fifteen years. Later, we learn that Boo is again arrested after stabbing his father with a pair of scissors. This extends his confinement indefinitely.

Although we cannot be sure of the conditions Boo lived in during his captivity, what can be stated for certain is that juveniles are particularly vulnerable to the rigours of confinement[2]. The major structural changes that an adolescent brain undergoes can be interfered with by the trauma induced from social isolation. Particularly vulnerable is the developing frontal lobe[3 ]— an area of the brain responsible for impulse control, thought organisation and strategy. Confinement leads to higher levels of cortisol, worse cognitive development, and is a major risk factor for depression, anxiety, and paranoia[4].

The greater reflection then, is less about the disease-state of Boo Radley, but more the aetiology of his illness and the role that abuse and confinement played. The Radley’s possess ultimate control over their son on a level of his personal freedoms, his healthcare, and even how the law deals with him. Mr. Radley convinces the sheriff to allow him to exert his own justice on two separate occasions, doing so by stating that Boo was not crazy, and it was “alright to keep him shut up”. Furthermore, when it is suggested that a season in a local asylum could help Boo, Mrs. Radley retorts that “no Radley was going to any asylum”.

There also exists a disturbing level of complacency and consent among Maycomb’s townsfolk, despite an open recognition of the poor conditions that Boo lives in. The ever-present Calpurnia, the children’s carer and cook, provides perhaps the greatest indication of this. Often looked to by the children for her honest musings on life in Maycomb, Calpurnia mutters after the death of Mr. Radley that “There goes the meanest man ever God blew breath into”. Even Atticus Finch, the novel’s hero of justice, displays a recognition and complacency of the poor treatment of Boo. In a particularly chilling passage when Jem is theorising that Mr. Radley must be keeping Boo chained to the bed, Atticus Finch said that he wasn’t chained up, but that “there were other ways of making people into ghosts”.

In a heart-warming climax of the book, Scout eventually meets Boo Radley, allowing her to understand the full physical manifestations of his illness. Scout marvels at his sickly white skin, his clouded-grey eyes that look like that of a blind man’s, his gaunt appearance. She notes the spasms of his body when interacting with others, his thin and dying hair, and his greasy sweating. She is shocked to see that Dr. Reynolds is also very familiar with Boo, an insight that causes her to reflect on his sickness. When they talk together, they do so on the porch and not inside where the lights are painful to Boo.

“Will you take me home?”, Boo Radley asks the young Scout as they are leaving the Finch household, a vocalisation of the mixture of fear, loneliness, and anxiety that he feels. This moment of vulnerability allows Scout to understand the difficulty of Boo Radley’s existence more clearly. “Atticus was right”, she states as she stands on the Radley Porch. “You never really know a man until you stand in his shoes”.

Through a life of imprisonment, we see that Boo Radley’s mental and physical health has suffered greatly. But perhaps the greater conclusion is that his illness is largely caused by the structure of society at the time. The novel illustrates the power of rumours in the perception of illness, particularly in a small town where one’s public image holds true value. The Radley family hold complete control over Boo; over his freedoms, legal status, and medical treatment. In an era where privacy was paramount, the complacency of the townspeople also carries the burden of blame. When reflecting on this through the lens of modern medicine, it is possible to see the importance of government or medical intervention — even at the reluctance of family members or citizens. At the genesis of his confinement, the story of Boo Radley could have played out very differently with the appropriate support. Although the adults might not have realised it at the time, the children certainty did:

“Why do you reckon Boo Radley’s never run off?” Scout asked. Dill sighed a long sigh and turned away from me. “Maybe he doesn’t have anywhere to run off to.”

When we arrived at my accommodation we said our goodbyes, but not before a final warning from Martín. He slapped me on the shoulder and reminded me that August was for “sitting and drinking, not walking and seeing”, before throwing me a bottle of water he bought from a shop nearby. But after checking in, I set out immediately. I had come to Granada with a specific goal in mind, and I was eager to go out and meet it.

The Alhambra was the fortified jewel of the Nasrid empire. The Iberian Peninsula had been under Islamic rule for seven-hundred years and the influence of that time dominated the city, overwhelming the usual Gothic architecture of Spain. Nowhere in Granada was this Middle Eastern presence felt more than beyond the walls of the Alhambra.

The fortress sits atop a hill overlooking the span of the city and stares eye to eye with the Sierra Nevada nearby. Me, alongside thousands of others just like me, laid our assault on the palace walls. No doubt reminiscent of the oncoming hordes that had done the same in centuries gone by.

Once inside, the Alhambra welcomed us graciously. Luminous wisteria rippled in the breeze and a mist rose from the water features that wound their way through the grounds, kissing at my skin and providing a respite from the sun outside the palace. I found a shady alcove to slump myself into, and I wondered if this was the last sight an invader would have seen. Exhausted and thirsty, lulled into tranquillity by the neat garden, soothed by the trickling water of the streams. Their laxity paid back in full with a sabre in the spine, victims of the Alhambra’s charm.

The stone cornices that made up the alcove were etched with verses of Arabic and my eyes followed the elegant lines, licks of calligraphy twisting and winding their way into my mind. I was drawn to a piece that graced the archway in front of me, and the plaque nearby translated its intentions.

There is no Victor but God, it read.

My heart thudded in my chest. A medieval fear coursed its way through the centuries.

There is no Victor but God, I read again.

Something ancient had burrowed its way into my viscera. How many like me had died in this alcove? Poisoned by the enhancements that laced the foundations of the Alhambra.

The heat and thirst were making me delirious. I greedily finished the last of Martín’s bottle of water and stood to my feet with a last ounce of energy. As I moved, the metal armour shifted heavily on my torso and the weapon at my side clanged in protest. I thought of the others that had failed, hypnotised by Moorish spells. But not me. I was a Castilian soldier. This was my last assault on the palace. I marched forward, staggering and uneasy on my feet, with cowardly Nasrid foot soldiers gawking and wailing from every direction. I mounted the steps that approached the palace entrance and looked up at the arched doorway. It was interwoven with mosaics and jewels which shone in the sunlight, hinting at the MiddleEastern riches that lay just ahead. I shoved open the ornate doors, slamming them against the stone frame. Unstoppable.

My eyes darted around the room, finding walls lined with stacks of jewels and gold. Spices from every corner of the Islamic empire singed at my nostrils, and I bounded into the room hungrily. I turned to lunge at a pile of gold in the corner, but felt nothing but the thud of my head on the dense stone wall. A pile of blood red rubies stacked as high as the Sierra Nevada called to me from the other side of the chamber and I staggered over, unbalanced feet slapping at the tiles below. I clawed at the rubies, begging to satisfy my desire, but claiming only fistfuls of air in the process. I looked around wildly. The bounty that I so painfully sought after was slowly fading away.

I was growling in frustration when my vision began to blur. My body went limp and I hit the floor with a dull thud. A fog of unrecognisable figures swarmed all around me and shouts of agua could be heard.

In my fading vision I saw a man sitting in the Islamic throne that graced the centre of the room. The glint of a familiar pair of eyes glared at me from above his fixed smile. Smugness. It seemed there was nothing in the world funnier than this. Yet another foreigner, yet another failure.