brio. The Fall 2015 Issue

.\n NYU Undergraduate Comparative Literature Journal

/BREE-oh/, noun

vivacity, spirit, an individual energy. The discipline of Comparative Literature is based on the assumption that the study of single texts and cultures is enriched by a knowledge of the texts and cultures surrounding them. It views literature from a broad and inclusive perspective in which philosophy, anthropology, history, language, and hterary theory come together, and where the visual arts, theatre, and modern media suggest crucial comparisons. This journal aspires to embody those ideas.

Bzfo is a student-founded publication that combines literary criticism with fictive works and visual art. In an effort to represent the wide spectrum of discourses that serve as the foundation of comparative study, the journal accepts submissions from any source.

Vm Here by Audrey Tseng

Balcony Scene Mia Figlia

One of Those Deaf Mutes “Comme ga, tu es.”

The After Hours I’m Here Beyond Constructed Duahsms A Petrarchian Contradiction

S. Only

Summer Home On the Abstraction of Art

Non Park) Italiano I Am My Father’s Daughter We Are All Made of Star Stuff

The Circle Is Complete Selected Sonnets Dreamscapes

Trouver Destine

I Giorni Piovoso Fast Cash

The Longest Day of Our Lives

Dolce Metro

Angelus Novus

‘Balcony Scene” by Nwakego Nwasike I take up smoking just to have a reason to stand out on the balcony. At first, the inhales drag dry, deep coughs out from inside of me, but after a while, I acclimate. My balcony overlooks a rundown courtyard that no one uses except the man who lives directly across from me. When it is warm his body will unfurl from its thick winter clothes and sprawl along the bench covered in bird shit and cigarette butts and let the sun crisp the pale, bloated, sparsely haired belly first to a tender pink, then to a painful, burnt red. 1 call him Lucille. 1 doubt this is his real name, but we have never met so I name him after the garish tattoo that is inked on his chest in obscene, curly-q, gothic letters. Now, cigarette in hand, 1 watch as Lucille begins his latest screaming match in a language 1 can’t understand—Scandinavian in origin, 1 believe—^with the man who lives directly above me. 1 have never seen Him, my unknown neighbor. He has no identifying tattoos that 1 know of. No penchant for sunbathing in the courtyard. No desire to lean over His rusted tailing to say hello to His downstairs neighbor. Late at night, however. He’ll sit out on His balcony and play Ihs guitar and sing in that language I don’t understand. I imagine that He is singing to me, and I’ll drift away to the sound of His melodic voice serenading me to sleep. I wonder what they are always yelling about. He sounds only vaguely annoyed— bored, almost. By contrast, Lucille is angrier. I watch Lucille’s face swell, watch his belly tremble with each heaving breath, with each scream that rips its way out into the world with explosive fury, accompanied by a loud bang,! of his fist against the railing.

I like to think my unknown neighbor is a charming, beautiful scoundrel who stole Lucille—the actual, female Lucille that is, who I call L—from my neighbor Lucille. Being friends, they had all emigrated to Paris together from Sweden, or some such country. They would scrounge for centimes, bemoan their frugal existence, but were grateful to be young and beautiful in the city of love. On Friday nights they’d go to the bar across the street. They’d get drunk and then stumble over to the Canal Saint Martin. There, my unknown neighbor would whip out His guitar and sing melancholy songs and bring tears to their eyes and Lucille would slap I lim on the back, full of drunken brotherly love and affection. And she, L, would lie back in Lucille’s arms, stroking his inner thigh suggestively, but all the while keeping her eyes on my unknown neighbor, who, his fingers already knowing all the notes, found her face much prettier to look at than His guitar.

One day, Lucille found out. Found them in bed perhaps. And my unknown neighbor would try to placate LIis old friend and L would try to tell Lucille that it was nothing, that it meant nothing, that nothing had changed. That she still loved him. And Lucille would leave, too upset to speak. And would go back to his apartment. And get depressed. And eat too much. Get fat. Plot revenge. Thought of ways to strangle her in her sleep, or else gut her, and Him, in bed, their pale, limbs entangled and entwined under the sheets.

I imagine he went to buy a gun.

I imagine that now L is up there, with Him, my unknown neighbor, and Lucille has seen them and now they are fighting again. The gun is in his left back pocket and his right hand will teach for it at any moment. He’ll let fire two bullets, hit them square in the head, and then perhaps he’d turn and shoot me, being a witness, and then go and shoot himself to put an end to his misery. For now, though, Lucille remains ahve, and so do my unknown neighbor and L. And, for now, so do I, out there on my balcony, cigarette in hand, an ocean away from home and anyone else who might feel compelled to miss me if I were dead.

“Mia Figha” by Aransiola Fako

Io mai incontrato la: mia figha. Siamo stati isolato, da sua anni prima Dentro il capello strego, cosmetica(o)

Del Demonio: strofinato da testa A piede, la maschera evolvendosi di

Comportamento; di antipatia, anacronia, Ascetismo o derviscio. Elie mai

Raggiunto sua gioventu, mia figlia

Strighata e disciplinata: EUe Scambiato sua sicurezza spirituale

Passiva con il Demonio affarc(i): Vendendo e comprando inspirazione immorale!

I’ve never met het: my daughter. We’ve been separated, since her first year

within the witch’s hair. Cosmetics of the devil: she’s been rubbed from head to toe, the mask evolving with her behavior: dishke, anachrony, ascetisicm, frenzied. And she’s never reached her youth, my groomed and disciplined daughter. And she’s exchanged her spiritual safety for the Demon’s affairs: buying and selling immoral inspirations! Is it that the Demon does naught but kill and destroy? I’ve never met her: my daughter.

Che e il Demonio ma uccidere ed a Distruggere?! Io mai incontrato la: mia figha.

Translated ty Talon Papale

“One of Those Deaf-Mutes” by Dong Kang

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7» memory ofyou, there was this sadness lingering inyour ^es. You were like that, at least at some point in my memory. Perhaps I sawyou that wiry because 1 wantedyou to be so, but I recall that, in those gift, there was a presence ofsadness. Phis sadness, among the multiple ofsadness 1 have seen so far.

ivas one that I could relate to more, sympathi7, e to, and a one that was more painful. Al then, Ifirmly believed that listening toyour laments, talking about mine, depending on each other, the notion of 'Tm not alone ” (or the illusion ofit) and the resulting comfort would make me less unhappy. Uponyour leaving I was forced to stop this act of sharing. As time passed, as my head grew, and as I looked hack, I thought that maybe sharing doesn’t necessarily make things better. By sharing 1 had to confront sadness that I didn 't have to confront. 1 had to think about things that 1 don’t want to think about. Most ironically, sharing didn’t make my pain go away nor cure it; in many ways it would confirm and amplify it. What was it that I wanted so badly despite all the unnecessary pain? Perhaps it was attention or some sense of solidarity withyou. Mow that there is nothing is left, 1 realicyd how the act ofsharing is

meaningless andfeeble. Then it all comes back to the notion of “How to deal with sadness” You could keep on talking like a broken record, or stop talking and listening like o ne of those deaf-mutes. Contrary to our wishful thinking this world doesn’t heed to individual voices. No one likes a broken record. Unnecessary and undesirable; peoplejust don’t like listening to an off-tune record. Then why don’t I stop playing Because Tm not ready to abandon that convenient and short-lived comfort. Because Tm afraid there is no other alternative. I don’t have the courage toforsake that comfort. It takes a lot of courage to pretend to be one of those deaf-

mutes.

“Cracked” Isabel I. Stub (below image)

'Comme t;a, tu es.” by Isabel I. Stub Tout c'est trop.

L'electricite dans ta mocUc osseuse fuit parfois. Fuit lorsque tes yeux s'clargissent, fuit lorsque tu fcins la mechancete,

fuit du cote d'un st)urire drape dans la lumiere d'un matin nous n’avons pas encore brise. Nous etranglons le matin. Nous decidons I'aube; midi est une variable.

Telle puissance transformait les tyrans en amoureux et amoureux en poussiere. Le temps a ete silencieux pendant un moment.

Je bascule d'etre a genoux a une colonne vertebrale redresse, un effort de ne pas contrairement a

la rouiUe du metal fatigue.

Je goute la rouille sous ta langue et je me rappclle qu'a I'envers est le cote droit vers le haut

contre le contour d'une forme ton corps a fait une fois. Lorsque j'ai trebuche et j’ai gratte la peau sur mon tibia, le sang a degouUne

vers le haut et pUe dans I'indifference d'un ciel qui j’echoue joyeusement a imposer une mesure de vitesse.

Comme ^a, vous etes. IJke that,you are. Tout c’est trop./The electricity inyour bone marrow leaks out sometimes./Teaks when your ryes widen, leaks whenyoufeign spite,! leaks out the side ofa smile draped in the light! of a morning we haveyet to break.! We strangle morning. We decide dawn; noon is a variable.! Such power has turned tyrants into lovers and lovers into dust. / Time has been quietfor a while. // totterfrom a grovel to a spine straightened, an effort not unlike ! the rusting over of tired metal. /1 taste rust underyour tongue and I'm reminded ! that upside down is right side up / against the outline of a shapeyour body made once. / When I tripped and scraped my shin, the blood trickled! upwards andfolded into the indifference ofa sky! unto which

1 happilyfail to impose a measure of speed.! Tike that, you are.

‘The After Hours” by E.R. Pulgar and Virginia Woolf Thefoliowing erasure aw curated using textfrom thefirstJin pages of Virginia Woolf's "Mrs. Dalloiuay." The order

of the ruords as they appeared in-text remains the same, lirth the poet choosing differentpairings to turn Woolfi London into his own surreal dreamscape.

I. the flower herself

he, heartless, quite happy—

could hear French air.

perfectly happy.

How fresh, how like the kiss

from India—vivacious, white, waiting.

V.

young. II.

her only gift

night,

serpentine death

indescribable heart influenza—

ugly, rambling bits, trees, mist,

The Wat was over, killed 1 leaven and passion.

she, dreamer of white dawn country, fears.

III. Selfish.

no heart, no brain,

nothing but an Enghsh gentleman.

IV. she never wrote beautiful things,

poetry soul, scolded. she in St. James’s Park,

11/4/15 12:22 pm

I'm Hen by Audrey Tseng (images)

Room Installation. October 7,2014.

Everything I’ve made kills me a little. Each and ever}' time, I’m losing a part of myself through the time devoted, or a new comprehension emerged that may come close to annihilate me. If each moment exists a particular unique self that cannot be repeated twice, then in my art, I sought to catch (but failingly) the tails of each spectral existence that was once so present and real but have dissolved into the massive continuum of ontological time.

Comprised of unfixed photographs, perishable objects, body remnants, and audio recordings, I’m Hen is is a collective act of tracing residual experiences, mourning over the absence and loss of self, if incapable of retaining one.

“Beyond Constructed Dualisms” by Chabelly Pacheco The conception and realization of who is human partially relies on a layer of constructed cultural and social norms. These conventions were built upon the division and polarities of an entity’s existence, further structured in terms of oppositions: one side is treated as valuable and the “other” is treated as a sort of deformation susceptible to discrimination and subjugation. The physical aspects of what constitutes a human dictate the dichotomies that regulate our existence, but also perpetuate restriction and confinement towards the human and the other entities that oppose its being. Moreover, the “other” hves an existence below the values of the human’s constructed standards because this “other” does not posses the standards that the human possesses. It cannot be escaped that the notion of “human” as it is understood today was created and centered around the economically privileged, white, cisgendered male thus maintaining a singular perspective on inequahties that refer to class, race, and gender. According to posthuman ideology, the continued oppression of the “other” perpetuates the static state of being human, and thus framing duahties that incite rejection towards who is different. An examination of specific duahsms will follow, beginning with the concept of class struggle.

Marx & Pingels’ goal was to set a praxis' in which Communism would be manifested and officially acknowledged by the hegemonic European powers. The goal of Communism was to abohsh private property because the tension of acquiring property is the cause of the reoccurring struggle amongst classes. The problem then hes within the structure of class- the hne that divides the bourgeois from proletariat, or the rich from the poor or the “other”, should no longer have a place within a society. AU conflicts that have occurred and wiU arise will be contested to the dichotomy of class and its dividing power. The Communist Manifesto iterates this claim concisely: “The history of aU hitherto existing society]- is the history of class struggles” (Marx-Engels 14).

Surely, historical evidence was provided in order to support class’ ubiquitous presence throughout various times. During the time of Marx and Engels, the duahty was amongst the Bourgeoisie and Proletariat. It was from “the Middle Ages [that] sprang the chartered burghers of the earliest towns. From these burgesses the first elements of the bourgeoisie were developed.” (15). There was also the freeman and slave, patrician and plebeian, lord and serf, guild-master and journeyman (14), amongst the oppressors and the oppressed. The bourgeoisie maintained their power over the proletariat by developing a civilization of manufacturing and production for mass consumption. The oppressor then did “away with the scattered state of the population, of the means of production, and of property. It [the bourgeoisie] has agglomerated population, centrahsed the means of production, and has concentrated property in a few hands. The necessary consequence of this was political centralization” (Marx-Engels 17). There was common unity- not the equitable kind but the unfair kind, in which the oppressor held the power and the riches, while the oppressed continued this vicious cycle of integration based on the misery of the

A combination of theory and practice.

exploitive, productive force the bourgeoisie was leading. The “other” now remained crushed under the very machines and cyclic consumption they were reproducing and laboring for. This kind of lifestyle undermines the freedom and liberation that humanity innately vies for. Marx and Engels sought a political response in assessing this unfair treatment, but further hoped to eradicate the duality of class struggle by abolishing the accessibility of private property. In their own words:

“The immediate aim of the Communists is the same as that of all other proletarian parties: formation of the proletariat into a class, overthrow of the bourgeois supremacy, conquest of pohtical power by the proletariat” (Marx-Engels 22). Martin Luther Kingjr. sought to incite change for the eradication of the race dichotomy. While in a Birmingham jail, he responded to criticism he received for his nonviolent campaign from eight white clergymen. He is defending his actions that the clergymen claimed were “unwise and untimely” (King 1) while providing a structured and spirited rhetoric which assisted in marking his status as a human rights activist. As an African American, King spoke of the United States’ oppression of black people and the entrenched social system that has allowed for racisms to continue with the conviction of his nonviolent practices to end this status quo. King specifically calls upon the white moderate and expresses his disappointment with them. The moderate white is described as the group of people that is,

“more devoted to ‘order' than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: ‘I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action’...” (King 5).

The efforts of direct action included sit ins and marches which incited exposure of the tension between the opposing races. The moderate white being the large majority in terms of numbers had the ability to stimulate the change of the society where whites were treated in a higher regard than blacks while segregation still persisted throughout. King’s actions called for reformation of this separation citing the moderate white as potential partners on the journey to complete desegregatit)n and degradation of racism. He remarked: “I had hoped that the white moderate would understand that the present tension in the South is a necessary phase of the transition from an obnoxious negative peace, in which the Negro passively accepted his unjust phght, to a substantive and positive peace, in which all men will respect the dignity and worth of human personality” (King 5).

African Americans within their respective communities have been quietly suffering under the comfort of the white population and this population’s lack of proactivity is not creating a positive space of acceptance but rather a space where tension arises because of accumulated discontent and inequitable consideration. The duality of white and black people has caused racism, creating opposing entities based upon human standards. These standards are based upon what is considered to be more socially acceptable- people with white skin being the group that benefits from these constructed values. People that consider themselves black therefore suffer in the grasps of this dichotomy without being able to liberate themselves away from this social construct.

Within the current discourse of human affairs we have abolished race as a significant scientific division, leading to the claim stating there is no such thing as race. Race is a concept created by the human who was typically in power and enforced the status quo to remain in power. The concept of black and white is therefore a cultural one that must be deconstructed to awaken society and assist in realizing the fallacious concept. Even so, we must accept race in this discourse because the issue of racism remains a pressing issue in contemporary affairs and there is no other as effective term to use that would replace race. While ethnicity is definitely a far more accurate label, it doesn't carry the cultural history of the term race and therefore cannot be as effective in deconstructing the culture. There have been arguments against the constructs of race, class, and also gender. In Gender Trouble, Judith Butler specifically seeks to criticize the ubiquitous heterosexual assumptions in queer theory while also providing commentary on society’s restricting notions of masculinity and femininity placed by gender and sexuahty. Gender is sexual inequahty that constitutes for the presence of a hierarchal relationship in which the woman is subordinated by the patriarchy. The form that is gender becomes further deconstructed and characterized as a repeated acting that produces the effect of a standard gender while conceahng the opposition and instability of a given person’s gender performance. This culminates to form what is widely considered to be the true gender, which is held by society’s collective actions of performance, production, and overall sustaining of the polarity between male and female. In Butler’s words, “The view that gender is performative sought to show that what we take to be an internal essence of gender is manufactured through a sustained set of acts, posit- ed through the gendered stylization of the body” (Butler xv). Therefore, gender is proven to be a human construct in which the acting woman- the “other” in this duahty- is discriminated against by the figure in power of society and the pervasive institutions that regard women as the lesser entity.

The norm-breaking bodies that defy the standard forms of gender lie within the in­ between of the male and female dichotomy. It is imperative to assess their identities amongst a world of duahties because they are disrupting the normative narratives. Butler introduces the transexual as a being that is doing just so. She writes:

“.. .a transsexual cannot be described by the noun of “woman” or “man,” but must be approached through active verbs that attest to the constant transformation which “is” the new identity or, indeed, the “in-betweenness” that puts the being of gendered identity into question?” (Butler xi). It is imperative to assess a transexual’s identity amongst a world of duahties because they are disrupting the normative narratives which ate confining us all. We can continue to reproduce our performances, but in such a conscious manner in which our existence is not defined by the mere acts of the form but rather by out perspectives based upon non-binary genders and how they are apphed to everyday life. Butler suggests we, the human, reestablish the meaning of what is real in order to give these gender conscious perspectives legitimate expression. She further claims, “If there is a positive normative task in Gender Trouble, it is to insist upon the extension of this legitimacy to bodies that have been regarded as false, unreal, and unintelhgible” (Butler xxih). These separation defying bodies, which do not pertain to a singular gender, are currently considered the “other” by the patriarchy we hve by and discriminated against because they are different; let us redefine what is real to include aU of

the humans subjugated by this duality. Discrimination against the “other” remains a viable human comfort which sohdifies the duahstic institution’s grasp on our existences. The introduction of class, race, and gender in deconstructionist perspectives through the works of the respective authors has generated the common theme of inequality inducing dualisms. These three categories have brought different types of oppressor/oppressed dichotomies into criticism due to their low social and cultural value of that “other” entity frequendy discriminated against. Even so, the historical contexts of the works that are tied to the categories do demonstrate the cultural disparities in which they were brought into, for example, communism during the rise of industrialization in the mid 17th century, racism in the United States during the Civil Rights Movement, and third-wave feminism. Yet, the issues of these time periods have proven to withstand the development of our world as ideas surpass international boundaries as technology connects more and more humans to this information. The 21st century has been a platform where these issues are brought into an even grander and conspicuous manner; it can perhaps be noted that we are hving in a great age of inequality'. The dualisms that cause inequities remain prevalent as much as the notion of the human remains in a stagnant actuality.

Some may claim the human body’s consistent physical appearances as a reason to not change the perception of who is human into something more unsettled and fluid. This pertains to another duahstic perspective in which the body and the soul remain and function as separate entities stimulating the human. So, another division, another form of inequity but this kind is profoundly personal. The construction of the duahty therefore does not abide to a post-dualistic framework which will assess the major inequalities that plague our society. The deconstruction of the human imposed duahties of race, gender, and class reveal the falsehoods that contain our ontology. An acceptance of change in what constitutes who is human will pervade the divisions of our time. In this time period, minority voices ate challenging the presented dualisms and the acceptance of this change is what will push us beyond structuralist duahsms into an idea that of the posthuman. Works Cited

Butler, Judith. "Preface." Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. New York: Routledge, 1990. Vii-Xxvi. Print.

King, Martin Luther Jr. "Letter from the Birmingham jail." In Why We Can't Wait, ed. Martin Luther King, Jr., 77-100, 1963.

Marx, Karl, and Friedrich Engels. Marx/Engels Selected Works, Vol. One, Progress Publishers, Moscow, 1969, Pp. 98-137;. Trans. Samuel Moore. Ed. Zodiac & Brian Baggins. London: Verso, 1998.

“A Petrarchan Contradiction” by Angela Karl

Sonnet in theform ofPetrarch’s love sonnetsfrom Canzoniere

Does youthful error ever truly leave?^ To ask repentance grants a first defeat? A smitten heart implores our deepest sighs/ Who is not cast down in heaven’s eyes?^

Explore the adorned world of love and war^ And learn a Godly kiss alone is pure? Baby’s arrows pierce the battling heart/

Only better men can break apart.’

Refers to Petrarch’s first sonnet from Cazoniere where he claims that he no longer suffers from his youthful errors ’ Petrarch asks his readers to “pardon” and “pity” him in sonnet 1 and for God to “grant [him] solace” in sonnet 315; this is after a life of what some could consider blasphemy—for idolizing his love, Laura ‘ As Petrarch claims, those who have “suffered by Love’s dart,” will understand his wandering. This line also has double meaning that could infer that godly people will “sigh” and fall into experiencing sympathy for those who have fallen for an earthly love instead of praising God

® This line provides compassion with Petrarch’s mistakes, because to be human is to sin, and thus, be ungodly

* Refers to Petrarch’s many exaggerated “war as love” metaphors in his sonnets ’ This has double meaning as: A) Only after a person has experienced love towards another human can he/she realize that only for God is it acceptable to have such immense feelings, or B) Similar to the concept of premarital virginity, if one loves anything other than God, he/she is no longer considered pure, and should therefore not be accepted into heaven

* Another reference to Petrarch’s war metaphors; also implying Cupid only affects those that are already swaying from a Godly path, or are on the battlefield oflove referred to in sonnet 221 of Canzioniere.

Petrarch knows that his greatest defeat^*^

Is in the endless love of mortal things^

Until the final day that he is beat^^

Admitted failure leads to praise of sinners Penitence leads to immortality^'^

All know God will not accept a traitor’®

® This is meant to seem on the surface as praise for Petrarch for being able to “break apart” from his earthly love and rise to a heavenly worship by the end of Canzoniere; underneath, it implies that only better men can split the two types of love and choose the devout path - something Petrarch was unable to do

“ Petrarch admits to his sins of idolatry, such as a Catholic at confession; seen as praise

Revokes the praise in the previous line by claiming he will never stop loving the woman, as he claims in Sonnet 12 Could be seen as Petrarch’s repentance after he realizes his only love should be God; also intended to imply he is only asking for forgiveness “to aid [his] final days” in sonnet 315 so he is not sent to hell when he dies; he is repenting because of fear of impending death and not true regret

“ Seeming to praise Petrarch for admitting his sins, then repenting for them to put him back on a righteous path

Under the clear message in this line, meant to imply Petrarch is only asking for repentance because he wants immortality in heaven (similar to line 11) Calling Petrarch a traitor because of his blasphemous idolatry of his beloved - this uses Dante’s representation of those convicted of sins against the state as being sent to the deepest layers of hell.

‘S. Only” by Rebecca Frankebergcr Part!

S. lifts her keys from the ceramic bowl and pockets them. She glances at the portrait of her and her parents over the fireplace. If you enter from the kitchen, the Christmas tree blocks her face from the painting.

Het parents asleep on the couch, only the Christmas tree lit, she shthers out the front door. Her watch says it is near 3 AM, and she knows her mother will be upset come the morning that S. did not just spend the night in het old room, especially now that S. has a job offer in a city some five hours away, a different country, a different language, but S. would argue that she can only take the smell of her childhood for so long. Locking the door, S. turns west on Machova towards Varsavska and sees a person approach from a block away. S. makes ready to cross the street, but recognizes the gait of a woman, and does not feel a risk. As S. walks towards her home, she begins to take in the appearance of the woman approaching. Average height, hair up. A ted coat that illuminates hke blood in the street lamp. And — The woman is S., is she not? The woman coming this way, the woman walking now with the same swagger as S., the same nose, the same breath. They are about to walk into each other, both enlarging their eyes, trying to understand how they are staring back at themselves. This marks the first Christmas that S. reacts without contemplation. S.’s arms immediately spring upward and she wraps her fingers around the other’s neck. S.’s neck? 'ITie stranger’s neck. S. uses all of her strength to push the stranger against the apartment on the corner of Varsavska as the stranger tries to claw at S., to stop the choke, to get a chance at grasping for air. It is obvious the stranger has not taken self-defense classes like S. has. The stranger’s eyes widen, her hair falls from its chps. S. debates crushing her head against the wall but fears she will lose her grip on the throat if she does. The eyes arc green. Of course they are, S. thinks. The stranger can’t actually be her, right? Or rather, S. debates, is the woman pretending to be her? Doppelgangers do not exist and clones are for the movies, no? S. works in insurance.

Is that how pale S.’s skin would turn, being choked to death? Of course it would, S. thinks. The stranger is het. A long-lost twin. S.’s grip loosens on that thought for a moment and then she remembers that is impossible, so S. tightens her grip again, for in that loosening the stranger managed to grasp at air. Is this what it looks hke when S. is asleep? After she crumples to the ground, S. checks her pulse. Is this what S. will look hke when she is dead?

For the first time since leaving her parents’ house, S. examines her surroundings. Ao empty street, an empty city. She has not stayed up this late since university. S. shines her hghter on the body that hes motionless on the concrete. S. knows what face to expect yet is starded when she sees her nose droop that way.

Part II

It begins to snow and S. thinks she sees blood in it, but it is just a thread from the dead woman’s red coat. Looks aside, this body could not have had the soul that S. does. She picks up the body and lifts it over her shoulder, fireman carry, which is surprising to S., since she’s never considered herself particularly strong. She walks for a half-hour and still does not tire. S. realizes she has walked to the Christmas tree lot where only two weeks ago she helped her father pick their Christmas tree, a yearly tradition that costs more than anyone can afford but about which everyone keeps quiet. She notices a shovel but does not risk carrying both the body and the tool. S. carries the body to the corner of a lot then circles back for a shovel.

S. digs fast, she digs like the sand boxes in elementary school, she makes a castle for the roly-poUies and digs five feet since she is on the shorter end of average and therefore can fold the body in half to make it smaller than necessary. S. fills the whole. She returns the shovel to its resting spot and bolts, careful not to let her laughter catch in the wind, experiencing adrenaline she has never felt before. But while S. is contemplating these possibilities on the corner of Machova and Varsavska, the stranger acts firsts, and before S.’s hands can plunge into her windpipe, the wide-eyed woman pulls her own keys out of her pocket, stabbing S. in the neck and twisting like S.’s veins are a door, then yanks them loose, splattering blood on the ted bricks as S. falls to her knees, abandoned on the sidewalk, the black night growing darker, S. forever unaware of what she looks like when she sleeps.

“Fin" Isabel I. Stub (below image)

‘Summer Home” by Jun Sekiya Eight o’clock. Sit up in bed and read a chapter of The Great Gatsly. Good, productive. I smell egg-fu-yung. Creep into living room, collapse on sofa. Dad is in kitchen. Sticks bald head around the corner and murmurs something in Japanese about studying Japanese. Turn on TV. Flip through to some show on New Zealand. Grab my laptop, open a three column word doc. Kanji—Hiragana—English. Wonder why Japan has more than one alphabet, then reahze language is a masquerade and get freaked out because we’re all just monkeys wearing clothes.

Dad brings breakfast on tray into hving room. Blanket of egg-fu-yung is impeccable. Rip off sticky wrapper covering natto beans. Drop of soy sauce. Glob of mustard. Serve with white rice. God. I’m so fucking healthy. Water plants for mom. I have allocated one Wu-tang album to study each week. This morning I am halfway through third listen of “Ironman” by Ghostface Killah. He seems angry, I note, as I sprinkle water over the hydrangeas. Gym opens at ten. Before going to gym, have to practice hfting—that is—keeping a soccer ball in air. Lifting is the Japanese word. Start thinking about language again, and need to get air.

On street in tank top and futsal shoes. Daypack filled for gym. Take tattered yellow sphere and bounce it on my toe. Soccer ball is named Lucas. Holdover from childhood of personified toys. Swing leg around hovering ball. Wonder why I can’t do this in front of girls when trying to impress them. Performance issues. Like dad. Talented piano player, but freezes up at recitals. Head over to gym. See meathead with a weight hteraUy strapped to his head. Monkeys aren’t this dumb. But I am no better, pumping calves to work a pulley of nothing. Sounds poetic, so I pull out iPhone to jot it down. Girl in perky salmon yoga pants may or may not be checking me out. Slide onto treadmill two machines over. Pick up speed to 16km and turn up earphones. Drift to treadmill’s edge and almost die. Time to go now. On way back, stop at park to drink a Strong Zero. Fizzy alcohol, 9%. Canned nostalgia. Litter spotted by the bushes. I adopt it as my trash—nothing escapes me, the watcher of small things. Think this could be a good title for a novel, but realize Arundhati Roy already wrote book The God ofSmall Things—assigned reading in twelfth-grade English. Only thing original is own hfe. No, not original. But people we plagiarize don’t sue. Usually. Think about ethics of turning people into characters. Then again, we are all just monkeys. Monkey theory is now a cliche, and no longer scares me. Emotions. All ephemeral. Does life mean anything? Have to take a shit, earmark question for another day. At home, dad is out of house, so I could watch porn. Will feel superior though if I don’t. Choose option B. Finally twelve o’clock. Whole day ahead. Whole season of these httle round days. Twelve oh-two. Whole day ahead. But now, horny. Jerk off in bathroom. Lay down in bed. Read a chapter of The Great Gatsby. Productive.

'On the Abstraction of Art” by Abigail Kosisko

If jesus had been electrocuted, we’d all be wearing electric chairs around our necks—

no one would question the vahdity of pipes life would be quaint like

(segregated) popcorn makers people would peel apart their hard-boiled eyes and the seams in their bones

and go completely mad over Mondrian as they all joined hands to create a universal

flesh carpet

untitled,

anonymous (photo)

“NON PARLO ITALIANO” By Emma Thomas A los 4.

At 4.

Se abren mis ojos en diciembre. Hace frio y la My eyes open in december. noche todavia no termina; sin embargo, viene It’s cold and the night is not over; regardless, mi madre. Viene su aliento de cafe y amaretto, my mother comes. Also her breath of coffee vienen sus manos que tiemblan cuando se and amaretto, her shaking hands when she enciende la luz. Prefiero cuando ella me turns on the light. I prefer when she wakes me despierta porque me susurra en italiano: up because she whispers to me in itaUan: Buongiorno, Emma, piccohna, signorina, Good morning, Emma, httle one, httle bombohna, bomboletta. It’s time to wake up, woman, pretty girl, pretty woman. It’s time to carina. wake up, cutie. A los 7. At 7. Me visto con la dehcadeza de una nina que I dress myself with the dehcacy of a young gkl aun no entiende su cuerpo: con atencion, con unknowing of her body: with attention, with interes, sin apuro. interest, without haste. Emma, andiamo! Mamma, aspetta! Aspettami Emma, lets go! Mom, wait! Wait for me! I’m I’m coming! coming! A los 11. At 11. Cojo el bus con mis amigas, una griega, una I take the bus with my friends, a greek gkl, a polaca, una coreana. Intercambiamos lo que polish gkl, a kotean gkl. sabemos y lo que no nos permiten deck. Ofrezco lo que tengo: We tell each other what we know and what we’re not allowed to say. Merda. Cazzo. Stronzo. Vai al inferno. Vaffanculo. What? No, non patio italiano. I offer what I have: Shit. Dick. Asshole. Go to hell. Fuck you. What? A los 15. No, I don't speak itahan. Me siento rodeada de vecinos que me conocen desde antes. At 3.

Mamma Rosa no me dice nada, solo me mka con ojos Uorosos y pierdo mi mano entre las suyas— calentitas, carinosas.

I feel surrounded by neighbors, that have known me before.

Mamma Rosa tells me nothing, only looking Me pierdo aunque intento seguk— Ti place? at me with tearful eyes and I lose my hand Si, si, mi place. Si, e mio fratello. Si, e within hers—^warm, affectionate. Giuseppe. No, non park, italiano. Scusi, scusi. I get lost even though I attempt to continue— Ah, mi displace! Ti record!? Do you like it? Yes, yes, I like it. Yes, it’s my brother. Yes, it’s Giuseppe. No, I don't speak kalian. Excuse me, excuse me. Ah, I’m sorry! Do you remember?

A los 19.

At 19.

Llueve en Budapest. A este bar, una reliquia It raining in Budapest. In this bar, a comunista, !e falta un techo completo, aunque communist rehc, missing a complete floor, no le fake gente ni caracter. Al hombre que without missing people or character. I tell the quiere hablar conmigo le digo que soy de man wanting to talk to me I’m from Madrid Madrid (because everyone knows American (Because everyone knows American girls are girls are easy): easy):

No, sono spagnola, ma sono nato a Napoli. Si, No, I’m not Spanish, but I was bom in si, a Napoli! No, non parlo itaUano. Naples. Yes, yes, in Naples! No, I don't speak Italian. But when we realize we are from the Pero cuando nos damos cuenta de que somos same city, the city of air that smells of de la misma ciudad, la ciudad del aire que garbage, tobacco smoke, and of salt from a huele a basura, humo de tabaco, y sal de un tremendous and old sea, we do what one does mar inmenso y antiguo, hacemos lo que se when encountered with a paesano: share a hace cuando se encuentra un paesano: se beer. comparte una cerveza. No, it isn't needed, you’re t(X) much— Well, No, no hace falta, eres demasiado— Pues, thank you. A thousand thanks. muchas gracias. Mille grazie.

Translated

Chabelfy Pacheco

1 Am My Father’s Daughter” by Wen Yt I.im

The first memory I have of my father:

Perth, Australia- I am two and three- quarters years old and it is my first trip out of Malaysia. I am swathed in a denim jacket three sizes too large for my frame because buying clothes that wait for you to grow into— and not outgrow— them is one of the ways Asian parents stretch the value of a dollar (or a ringgit, for that matter) to its fullest potential. Not that I mind, anyway. In photos my sleeves are rolled comically large, but not as large as my grin. We arc in a tour group walking from a seafood restaurant on the waterfront to where the chartered bus is waiting for us, engine whirring idly against the soft hum of the ocean waves. The green man blinks, and suddenly my dad scoops me under my armpits, cheering, let'sgo\ my mom catches my ankles and together this is how they swing me, tiny human hammock, across the toad. For a full minute, our laughter sounds like bells in the wind. Why I have a hard time believing this is true:

I don't remember such spontaneity from my parents ever after. My parents ate actually really shy Why I choose to believe this happened, anyway:

Because the heart remembers things that even the body outgrows. The one T-shirt we have that perfecdy encapsulates what it was like growing up in our household:

mummy siys no, ask daddy”. My sister mastered the art of this much earlier than I did. An excerpt that I am not proud of, taken from the diary I kept aged 10-12:

2/5/2003, 7.30pm: I hate papa for ratting me out. I want my Nancy Drew book BACK!!!!!!!!

My mother had confiscated it because I was more interested in finding out whether Nancy and Ned ever got around to unlocking the trapdoor before the old man's nephew turned up, instead of memorizing a presentation that I was supposed to give in class the next day. My father had caught me in the act and had subsequently mentioned this to her, which, to 10 year-old me, was the ultimate betrayal that a patent could ever inflict on a child. But that very night, two hours after this entry was written, my father comes upstairs and places the book on my desk. "Ifyoufinishyour homework firstyou will have all the time in the world to read', he smiles, and all of a sudden there is a growing lump in my throat that I still have no words for. Before I sleep I thumb through my diary and slowly, shamefacedly, scribble out the word "hate".

Part of the first text my father sends 13 year-old me after I call my parents, sobbing, the first time I experienced what it felt like to be bullied my first year away from home:

"Don’t mind them. Th^ can assume all thy want. As long asyou've done no wrong andyour conscience is clear,you don't have to worry. Remember: assume is ass-u-me." My first reaction:

Oingc. How cheesy. My second reaction:

My father loves me more than I will ever know. One of my favorite memories of my father:

Is of him blasting 70s/ 80s Chinese love songs in the car, fingers drumming to the beat

against the worn leather of his steering wheel. The voices of and harmonize to a crescendo and as my dad belts out the lyrics in perfect timing he also goes terribly offkey on the falsetto. The whole car erupts. “Stop” my sister yells, and we are a tangled mass of limbs in the backseat laughing so hard that we get stitches in our sides for the rest of the ride. “Willyou two stop kicking the seats',' my mom says, but even she finds it hard to suppress a snort.

The first playlist I made on Spotify is titled "songs from my dad’s cat", and is entirely in Chinese. On nights where being 22 makes me a little more tired than usual, it helps me to remember what it felt like to be seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve— to be a child, to be in the backseat of my father's car, again. What I don't say enough to my father:

I love you. Why this makes me a little sad:

My father is the strongest man I know. It takes a lot to keep a family together across three countries and two continents, and his quiet patience is our anchor.

I might never be a father, but a lot of what I learnt about being a person, I learnt from mine.

“We Are All Made of Star Stuff’ by Stephanie Lam

Everything is bad because everyone is dying. We rush and run, in life and in the fields. Things begin to lose their meaning.

If that is what it is...

•-

What it is...

What it is...

Stars that burn brightly before burning out. I once read that we all came from sleeping stars.

Particles from imploded supemovae became the primordial soup From which we all sprung.Birth by bursts—

Big

BANG! Oneexplosion and we live—we are all made from star stuff That goes into the earth,

Into crops, into food, into the living. Nothing ever really ends.

We cannot separate—we are the same.

But there is too much to resolve with;

“We are all Human.” We are Hermits in the expanse of one galaxy. We are all

isolated.

One is indivisible.

I try and risk. I am my own star stuff.

Me, myself, and (I),(I), (I), (I), (I) Infinitely, I. Don’t all humans think like that? Star stuff is good stuff. It will hve for now.

And then. And later.

We are all made ofstar slujf.

“The Circle is Complete” by Stephanie Lam

XJ^^^hhhhhh. A manicured hand felt for the phone. Rin^! Rin^! Go amy. Dozens of mini Bombay Sapphires were knocked off of the side table. The ashtray toppled onto the floor, scattering cigarette butts everywhere and littering the carpet.

Rin^! Rin^! Rjng!

“What!” Priscilla growled into the receiver. “Good morning, Ms. Abandonato!” a woman trilled,“This is your 11 A.M. wake-up call. We’re sorry about your loss. Also, a friendly reminder that you need to check out today. We hope you have pleasant afternoon!” The line went dead. Priscilla replaced the receiver.

She rolled over and fished through the cigarettes on the ground. She found the blunt she had discarded among them last night andreht it. She breathed in the fumes as the fire slowly consumed what was left of the weed. Moments later, she felt weightless. Priscilla curled up on the floor and let the feeling overtake her. It did not last long enough.

When the floor felt solid again, she turned het head towards the dress hanging over her bathroom door—the only piece of black clothing she owned. She had bought it yesterday at an expensive boutique downtown. Priscilla slipped out of bed and shimmied into the dress before studying her reflection in the mirror. Iler face was puffy. Het hazel eyes were red-rimmed, highhghted by the dark half-moons beneath them. Lack of sleep. Long nights. She covered it up with make­ up.

Five minutes later, she stepped out of the motel, a cloying perfume masking the fact that she had not showered in days. She drove her tented Honda to the church and met her mother. Clouded with her residual high, the service was hazy. She couldn’t tell you what was being said, how Alberta was being remembered, eulogized. She only remembered being ushered to the side of the church after the service—towards the grave. As Priscilla stood by the foot of All’s final resting place, her brothers, cousins, and uncles marched the casket up the hiU. Maybe it was her position, but it seemed as if they were bringing it straight towards her. Priscilla redirected her gaze to find four familiar pairs

of hazel eyes observing the procession: Alberta’s sister, Isabella, and her cousins, Valentina, Carina, and Aria.

They were huddled together, arms wrapped tight around each other. Every few seconds, one would whisper into the ears of another. At one point, Isabella looked up, glazed over Priscilla, looked back towards her sister. Priscilla self-consciously pulled at her dress. It was too tight around her hips, too low-cut. She had thought it was sexy yesterday. Now, she felt exposed. What were they thinking about her in their conservative suits? They didn’t seem to care. Priscilla folded het arms. It had not always been like this. When they were younger, the six of them were always together. The youngest members of their large Italian family and all girls—it was a serendipitous coincidence. Is, Tina, Car, An, and Ah—they were present in all of Priscilla’s pre-pubescent memories. But they grew up, went to college, and scattered all over the country. They inevitably fell apart. This was the first time Priscilla had seen them all together in over ten years. She hadn’t even known about Ah’s cancer until her mom called to tell her about the funeral last month. Looking at them now, she recalled the day that Alberta was bom. PrisciUa was five at the time and the oldest of the group, so she got to meet Alberta first. Ah was the last girl to be born and PrisciUa couldn’t wait until she was old enough to play with them. Back then, Priscilla decided aU of their games. Her favorite was Witch, but they could never play it. She had read somewhere that six witches were needed to form a coven, so they were only apprentices. With Alberta’s birth, they could become fuU-fledged witches.

When Priscilla held Ah for the first time, she gazed into the baby’s hazel eyes—her own eyes infinitely reflected within them—and whispered, “The circle is complete.” As they lowered Alberta into the grave, Priscilla finaUy began to mourn.

Selected Sonnets by Christopher Ridge

Claire Unsuited to the measure of her birth, the cold, composed, close figures of twelve hours the daughter of the moon was wrapped in flowers and left to whirl and turn upon the earth, ffhcy fed her dinner first, for what it's worth.) Mortal flesh, that yearns, demands, and sours was pinned about het Ught. The brickwork towers of this town black the sky with furnace-mirth, and she's a factory-girl, who sings with joy on holidays or when she can sleep in. “I'd give the stars for one half-decent boy.” She's wracked with rouge-wave laughter. She's so thin. When she walks on this beach of trash, the tide, like me, unnoticed, never leaves her side.

After Imago

We're issued plums like amber hand-grenades and loosed to eat and run with juice outside. Her mouth is hke a gift unfolding, wide around the detonation. She invades the tart of tongue and fruit. The garden fades but she remains, aflame and follow-eyed.

That summer catches in my throat, I'm tied with schoolgirl braids and staining taste, to shades that now surround a woman with her name, until their youthful limbs shine through her lace and I can't beat to look. I call a cab and say I've changed, though I am just the same.

I can't see past the light I can't replace, beside which every season since is drab.

[Bird]

Within this span of love you'll fill three teeth, learn how to fall and not to, clean your scrapes, unless you're trying one of your escapes (the door is locked, the key is just beneath your mother's dress and wedding-flower-wreath, or maybe on the sill behind the drapes). If you're hke me, your swords will take strange shapes; hke me, you have a sad, distorted sheath. Inside us is an empty, bird-shaped, place. Mine is a scar, imprinted by the weight of breaking wings. Within this span of grace your bird is still an unfilled space and date of echoed song. Go put the coffee on. I'm thinking that I'll miss you when you're gone.

'Dreamscapes” Rishi Bandopadhay

I wish I could sleep. Sleep was once such a blissful concept; eight hours a day during which no one can bother you. Eight hours a day during which the texts, calls, IMs, e-mails, and omnipresent iPhone notifications come to a screeching halt; no one—and nothing—can reach you. Eight hours a day during which the worries you have in the real world are secondary to the worries you have in the dream world. Sleep used to come naturally to me. Once. Now, the only dreams I dream are dreamt whilst I am wide awake. Like the city I inhabit, I, too, don’t sleep.

I wish I could say I was being as productive as Fitzgerald, Miller, Poe—even P. Diddy would do. I wish I could write that 1 masquerade around Gotham under the cape and cowl of Bruce Wayne’s alter ego. I wish I could say or write a many number of things. I wish and I wish and I wish. That’s what I spend my nights doing. I wish 1 had more money—don’t we all? Somehow, the modest bank balance I had back in Texas became a whole lot smaller in this city. I’m certain: somehow, the quarters I saved over the years have been mistakenly accepted as pennies. That’s the only explanation, I reason. I’m a frugal guy, after all. I don’t spend money aimlessly. Then again, my roommates don’t seem to understand my predicament. Franklin is their omnipresent friend, it seems. They spend money fruitlessly, stupidly, unthinkingly, and I must repent for their foohshness. The budget I keep, the money I save, is no match for the Haagen-Dazs Java Chip ice cream my roommate bought without my acknowledgement—and yet it’s my responsibihty, my duty, my burden to pay now ft)r any future bites I take of the cight-dollar ice cream that was the only brand of ice cream my street-smart roommate could find. As much as I attempt to hold on to Washington, Lincoln, and Jackson, they seem to escape my grasp. One by one. Time and time again. I wish I had someone to share these sleepless nights with. A friend. A lover. A who-knowswhat. A who-cares-what. Someone to talk to.. Truthfully, it becomes awfully lonely sitting on this windowsill, thinking thoughts of thoughtlessness. It’d be nice even to see someone else. So nice, that my eyes hght up when I see a lone passerby walk by so far below. Sometimes, he’s drunk and stumbles to and fro, like a child learning to walk. Sometimes, she’s sneaking home after a late night sexcapade, having escaped early enough so she doesn’t have to make the dreaded “walk of shame.” Other times, they’re walking around, hand-in-hand, enjoying the ethereal time they share, the soundless words they speak to one another. I find a sense of companionship in these vagabonds. These nameless silhouettes who exist only for brief, fleeting moments, before vanishing forever from my hfe. One by one. Time and time again. I wish I wasn’t lost. I used to know what I wanted out of hfe: go to school, get a job, meet a girl, buy a house and a car. Build a family, die happy. It’s all jumbled now. Heads is tails. One and one make three. Uptown is Downtown. East is West. Right is wrong; left is right. How to get back, I do not know. So day by day, night by night, I continue getting lost. Grades shp

and focus falters. The goals I had, the expectations 1 had of myself, they fade away into nothingness. One by one. Time and time again. I wish I still had hopes. I’m certain I’m not alone in my yearning for aspirations, my longing for ambitions. How many people must have come to this city, this amazing city, with hopes in their hearts and hearts on their sleeves only to realize this city, this merciless city, will take it all away? 'Hieir hopes mean nothing here. Try Los Angeles. Or Chicago. Or Austin. Or Boston. Get out while you can. And those people—the plethora of dreamers—they cease to hope. They cease to believe. One by one. Time and time again. So why stick around? Why stay here in this city? Because I dare to dream with eyes wide open. I’ve grown sick of caring about my bank balance. I’ve stopped thinking of how much I spent this week or how much money my roommate extorted out of me for food I neither wanted nor needed. I’ve grown weary of searching for a companion for these lonely nights — instead, I seek shelter in the words of Ginsberg, Lennon, Kerouac, Baldwin, for their words, their voices, provide me the camaraderie I so desperately need. I’ve forgotten the road I was on, instead focusing on the road I’m on now. I’ll find my way, I tell myself. I’ve stolen from the city my hopes; again. I’ve begun to beheve. Imagination soon follows. My mind roams freely. Jumbled words become coherent sentences. Abstract thoughts become concrete ideas. The city at night has become a sandbox and I its architect. And I dare to build. Build fantastic dreamscapes I hope to one day inhabit. Build wondrous roads I aspire to one day travel. I build and I build and I build a world in which my troubles seem so vey far away. A world where I find solace from the problems that plague me so today. A world where I exist fully, completely. A world where I play without fear of repercussions. So, I build and I dream and I exist and I play.

I play in the playground of the greats: Fitzgerald, Miller, Poe. They all had the courage to dream in this city, this city that doesn’t sleep. I hope to follow in their footsteps. They, too, dared to dream with eyes wide open.

Trouver Destine par Seamus A.M. McGuigan

Tomber, tomber mes brisees. Tomber comme un pleut eternel

Et attacher sur les fcnctrcs De la memoire, de le Fumoir,

Et recueiUir dans un grand mare. Je vais y plonger encore.

Plonger jusqu'a le fin sombre

Et rassembler gouttes sur mon cceur

Ferai d'eau, boirai sa beau, Et cracher sur le terre nouveau. Tu Departes Ta peintures sont tombes sur la mur;

Des couleurs ne vivent pas ici. Tu les avez prises avec mon coeur;

Mais la blanche et le noir tester.

Mon amie, mon amie Pourquoi ai-je detruis non amie?

Mon pere, mon pere Pourquoi ai-je deviens mon pete? Pour la neon?

Pour la desir? Pour la vengance? Non. Mon vie, mon vie Je I'ai fait pour la fin de mon vie.

“I Giorni Piovoso” by Aransiola Fako

I There are five stages of life: Days of moonlight, sunshine, blue skies, rain, and fog. A snow or ice is rain frozen. They always keep their raincoat and umbrella for the reign of rain. To Repair and protect them. <Life make.s it so.> Foggy days are depressing but they should bring one to exaltation. Blue skies for the beach and sociahzing. Sun Sunshine and sunbeams bring joy to life. Days of moonlight for honeymoons, sleep, or relief (relax) after productive days. II

Cloudy days for birds to regroup on the eclectic line. Blue sky is for birds posing and tourists appearing. Flowers flower in irresolution, trees lengthen in the night and expand after the rain. Water and minerals are conducted along toots and branches via the xylem. Nutrients from the trees and stems are transported into the wood.Tubes sieve, filter, and reduce the forceful water. Plants retain circadian rhythms, hke us, human(s). They know when to produce, transpire, and, or succumb to exhaustion. Our paths are shppery with rain; oceans and seas are preferred.

Translated ly Talon Papale

I Ci sono segmenti cinque a vita: Giomi lunachiaro, solelucentezza, cielo Azzurro, piovoso, e nuvolosa(o). Una neve o gelo e una piaggia gelato. Sempre tiene (loro) impermeabile E ombreUo per il periodo piovoso: Riparare e proteggere loro.<Vita e Che loro fa essa sta>: Giomi nuvoloso Sono deprimendo ma loro dovrebbe Esaltano essi. Cielo azzurro per spiaggia E sociaUzzazione. SoleLucentezza e soleraggio introducono gioia A vita. Giomi lunachiaro per lunamiele, Sonno, o rilasciamento (rilassamento) dopo efficace. II Giomi nuvoloso per ucceUi raggmpare In Linea elettrica. (iielo azzurro e per uccell Librandosi ed appareccii turiste. Fiori fiorono in insoluzione, alberi AUungano a notte ed espandono dopo Piaggia. Acqua e minerale sono condotto Da radice a rami via xilema. Transportato Per tiglio sono nutriente da foglie a stelo. Tube settaccio filtra e riduce Potenziale acqua. Pianti tengono Ritmi circadiano come ci, umane(i). Sanno quando produrre, transpirare ed, o Esaurire. Nostri(e) strada sono sciacquato Per piaggia; oceani e mari sono favorito.

“Fast Cash” by Kim Alu EXT. STOEET. EARJ.Y MORNING A homeless man sits on the sidewalk, a cup next to him. He holds a sign that reads : DOWN ON MY LUCK, ANYTHING HELPS. People pass by with htde regard. A few drop coins or a dollar, but most ignore his presence.

CUT TO

EXT. STREET, NIGl IT The homeless man sits and cradles his head between his legs. The same sign and cup from earher sit in front of him. As someone passes by, they toss a business card and fifty cents into the cup. The sound of the faUing coins catches the homeless man’s attention. He looks up, but whoever dropped the money is gone. The homeless man pulls out the business card. On one side it reads : NEED CASH FAST? NO JOB, NO HOME, NO PROBLEM. WE GIVE YOU WORK. NO QUESTIONS ASKED. The homeless man turns the card over, the other side reads ; AND WE MEAN NO QUESTIONS - 8888408274 CUT TO EXT. STREET, NIGI IT The homeless man sits on a new street corner. The same sign and cup sit in front of him. He plays with the business card, stopping to read it over and over again. He hoists himself up and stumbles to a payphone. He digs through his cup for a few coins, dropping them into the slot. He dials. The phone rings once. Twice. Three times. Finally :

VOICE ON PHONE

I leUo. HOMELIiSS MAN

Hl. VOICE ON PHONE

I low can we assist you today?

HOMELESS MAN

Um...someone gave me your card...about work? VOICE ON PHONE Where are you located?

HOMELESS MAN

Uh..New York.. VOICE ON PHONE

What are your cross streets?

HOMELESS MAN (looking around) 6th and West 24th? VOICE ON PHONE Thank you.

The phone goes dead.

HOMELESS MAN Hello? Hello? He puts down the receiver and looks around. The streets are empty. He continues down the street. Almost immediately, a black carpulls up next to him. The homeless man looks around the empty street again. He starts to walk away but the carfollows him. He stops and looks at the car. The windows are tinted. The passenger window is lowered slightly.

DRIVER

You called? The homeless man nods.

DRIVER Get in. The homeless man looks around one last time then gets into the back seat of the car.

FADE TO BLACK

‘THE LONGEST DAY OF OUR LIVES” by A. M. Sweeney

I. WE’LL START IN THE MORNING THIRTY MINUTES BEFORIi SUNRISE

we’ll drive as fast as we’re allowed across the plains east toward the sun as soon as it breaks the surface we turn right around and race up the mountain

the rocks here are red and known for it, my sister is at a concert in high school

at twelve thousand feet the trees thin out and disappear completely

there is not enough oxygen up here for them to survive but there is just enough for us on the other side is the continental divide

where rivers break atlantic and pacific to the ocean

there will be no snow on top in June when we go my sisters told me when i was a kid Alaska was on the other side of the rockies

but i know better now it’s just Grand Junction and more desert and the setting sun we race toward glowing redder as the light coming off it

travels off three hundred million meters per second plus the seventy or so miles per hour we’re going which feels like hurtling

but it’s more like tiptoeing across the longest day of out lives the sun hangs on the horizon just seventy miles per hour longer

we put the car in neutral and stop on the side of the toad and we whisper

II. ON THE SHOULDER OF THE HIGHWAY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT

i want to hear the end of the world before it comes so we have time to fly to Nevada before it does

under this Nevada sky we will see all of the stats and we will watch them all explode individually

and tumble toward us if you haven’t been tilt your hand ninety degrees to your eyes trace a

line through the thumbnail to the north star curl the tips of your fingers to the base of your fingers those hnes are the tracks of rocket cars setting

land-speed records at Bonneville those fingers are the mountains at Nevada’s edge, aU of it could use some of that smells-so-good lotion

you keep in your bag i’ve never been to Nevada

with you but i was once in Nevada thinking of you it was two years before we met, i was in the desert for two years i knew where to watch the sky burn

but i didn’t know who i wanted to see it with me

in. NO ONE STOPPED THEM BECAUSE NO ONE’S SO CRUEL

we’ll drive the long way around the earth to Paris across a dried up ocean to spend the fall there

watching the leaves change in the Luxembourg gardens me in the driver’s seat you flipping through old photos on your phone the photos you were all about freshman year

the ones of George Washington with dumb funny captions in comic sans

and i’ll look at you in love since high school without a reason to try alcohol or cigarettes

and no marijuana’s enough to get you through the summer it reminds me of the time we flew a Tiger Moth from outside San Antonio to Miami and

sitting on the swings with you in sixth grade recess

you let me go on and on about settling down with you in h'lorida and then in my freshman year dorm courtyard the night before we broke up

all of us were there like the ending of a film that ends in a theater and everyone you have or had is there and even ghosts

are there and you wonder why didn’t anyone stop them

“Canal" Isabel I. Stub (behiv image)

'Dolce Metro” by Alessandro Moghrabi

...in Dante il ritmopoeticopan che ci mostri tutta la propria efficacia e contenga specijiche SHggestioni perche e stnttamente legato e conforme a signiftcati e contest! ad esso coennti.

—Gian Luigi Beccaria, D'autonomia de significante, 115

La Commedia e un’opera poetica d’incredibile profondita e ricchezza: cio nonostante, troppo facilmente e troppo spesso gli esegeti danteschi si immergono nel reame deU’interpretazione, dimenticando cio che la Commedia k fondamentalmente—un testo poetico. La poetica di Dante svolge il ruolo di spina dorsale deU’opera, ed e se stessa capace di creare e promuovere un significato in relazione ad un universo semantico. In effetti, come notato dal Beccaria, “un ritmo, una prosodia, la relativa grammatica, hanno senso soltanto in un’opera. Altrimenti non sono che finzioni [...] poiche ogni figura e per un verso eventualmente inter-personale, ma ad un tempo figura interna al sistema stilistico-retorict) del poeta singolo” (Beccaria, 6). Questo breve saggio vuole dunque proporre uno studio metrico del ruolo poetico della dolcesp^a—del termine in se—nel secondo reame, il Purgatorio'. piu precisamente, si vuole analizzare il vocabolo nel suo funzionamento poetico e nella sua relazione con il contesto semantico deU’opera. I termini ’’metrica”, “ritmo”, “poetica”, “poesia”, etc.—parole usate e definite in miriadi di modi (cfr. Ibid. 10-13)—devono dunque essere qui semphcemente intesi come denotazioni deU’insieme coerente di elementi poetici e linguistici in un’opera poetica. Questi elementi, che potrebbero apparire meccanici, tecnici, o sterili, sono in realta le fondamenta di qualsiasi sforzo poetico: nonostante siano certamente anche costrizioni per il poeta, essi permettono a ogni elemento linguistico di diventare estremamente incisivo nel corpus poetico di un’opera, essendo parte integrale di un meccanismo dove ogni ‘ingranaggio’ poetico a un ruolo ben preciso e definito—si parla dunque di “un vincolo non normativo ma inventivo” (Ibid., 8) dentro ad una “dimensione poetica che promuove ogni elemento (fonema, metro, sintassi, etc.) al rango di segno” (Ibid., 7). E necessario pero precisare inizialmente su quale ampiezza questo studio porra la sua attenzione: contrariamente a “dolcezza” o “dolcemente”, U vocabolo “dolce” e usato neUa Commedia con vari e numerosi significati in numerose occasion! (cfr. I’omonimo articolo •ae\PEndclopedia Dantesed)-, intraprendere un’anahsi cosi comprensiva sarebbe molto arduo per i Umiti di questo tema, il cui scopo e di solamente introdurre una discussione suUa metrica deUa dolcezza nel Purgatorio. Dunque, si prenderanno in considerazione i vocaboU “dolcezza” e “dolcemente” (che letteralmente significa “con dolcezza”), siccome “dolce” e troppo ampio nel suo uso.

Il Canto II del Purgatorio^ il primo veto luogo della Comtnedia nel quale la dolcezza^^ e espressa attraverso il riconoscimento di Casella, “narrato con suprema dclicatezza” (Chiavacci, Meridiam, 42), e il punto di partcnza piu appropriato per questa anaHsi: esso appartiene ad un quadro poetico, dove ogni elemento concorre a definire un unico sentimento animatore, fatto di attesa e stupore” (Salvetti, 7), di cui la dolcezza ne e il pemo: che ne la mente mi ragtona’

comincio elli allor si dolcemente,

che la dolcegga ancor dentro mi suona (Pur. 11,112-114)

Anche solamente a prima vista, e gia possibile vedere che la ripctizione “dolcemente” (v. 113) e “dolcezza” (v. 114) protrae I’elemento semantico e poetico su due versi senza virtuaknente alterame la forma (da awerbio diventa nome), ingrandendo dunque la presenza della dolcezza che adesso e fisicamente presente su due versi. Per di piu, la parola “mente” (v. 112), posta in accento di sesta sillaba, rima con “dolcemente” nel verso successivo; se dunque rappresentiamo cid nello schema della terza rima dantesca, lo schema tipico ABA BCB si muta in (b)ABA BCB—“B” rappresenta la rima “-ente”, e “b” rappresenta la presenza di suddetta rima in accento di sesta. E anche possibile osservare I’assonanza della /o/ del verso 114, nel quale si trova “che la dOlcegga ancOr dentrO mi suOna", dove il suddetto fonema dentro ad “ancOr” e “suOna” e rispettivamente posizionato in accento di sesta e di decima sillaba. La risonanza ritmica mette in valore il suono ripetuto, e di conseguenza anche il suo significato semantico—in questo caso la dolcezza. In totale dunque, se si sommano le precedent! osservazioni, e possibile notare che ‘il suono della dolcezza’ pervade la terzina (in oltre, la rima in “-ente” continua nella terzina seguente), come una specie di magnitudo soni che costruisce I’importanza e la grandezza del messaggio semantico attraverso lo strumento poetico. Nonostante cid, renders! contt) che un suono, ultimamente, non e un simbolo di per se carico di sigmficato autonomo, e assolutamente fondamentale ; il Beccaria awerte che “il rischio piu grosso da evitare e appunto il privilegio che spesso vien conferito al peso del metro, come se esso fosse semanticamente cosi forte da segnalare qualcosa che non sia indicato nel messa^o poetico” (Beccaria, 118-119). Un buon punto di partenza sarebbe dunque dire che la “dolcezza” diventa un elemento poetico di grande prevalenza quando associata al canto—^il musicista Casella intona infatti una canzone scritta da Dante stesso e posta in apertura del Ebro III del Convivio, e secondo Boccaccio, neUa sua Vita di Dante, “[egli] sommamente si dUettd in suoni e in canti nella sua giovanezza; e a ciascuno che a que’tempi era ottimo cantatore o sonatore fu amico e ebbe sua usanza, e assai cose, da quel

Il termine e utiEzzatt) una sola volta in precedenza, in Inf. XXVI, E canto di UEsse; nei versi 94-96, egE si riferisce aUa dtilcezza dell’amore di suo figEo, che non fu perd sufficiente nel trattenerlo a Itaca. Questo episodio non sara discusso perche, trattandosi ancora deU’Inferno, E valore poetico e semantico del termine e ancora legato ad un mondo definito daUa dannazione e dal peccato—che dunque influenzano pesantemente E significato di ’’dolcezza”.

diletto tirato, compose, le quali di piacevole e maestrevole nota a questi cotali facea rivestire”.

Il luogo seguente dove si incontra la dolcezza e il Purgatorio VIII, ancora in un vero e proprio canto intonato dagli spiriti pentiti all’ultima ora, provocando un’ “aura di ricordo e di attesa che trapassa dall’una all’altra, di malinconia e di speranza” (Chiavacci, Meridiani, 22'iy. ‘Te lucis ante’ si devotamente

le uscio di bocca e con si dolci note, chefece me a me uscir di mente;

e I’altre poi dolcemente e devote (Pur. VIII, 13-16)

Per cominciare, “dolcemente” e “devote” (v. 16) sono in aUitterazione di /d/ e /t/, e in assonanza di /o/ e 1^1, insieme ad una sineresi che cancella il suono della congiunzione “e” fra i due vocaboU, facendo si che essi non siano ritmicamente separati; inoltre, “devotamente” (v. 13) e “dolci” (v. 14) appaiono nella terzina precedente, la prima in rima e la seconda in assonanza con la parola in rima (“dOlci nOte”), creando dunque un richiamo poetico che protrae la presenza di queste parole nei versi, proprio come nel Canto II. Tutto cio tende il sintagma del verso 16 estremamente ricco e pesante sotto un punto di vista metrico. Per di piu, la parola in rima “mente” (v 15), rima con “dolcemente” nel verso successivo—ancora come nel Canto II—ed e anche in assonanza di /e/ con “devote” (v.l6): se si schematizzano le parole metricamente legate in ordine di apparizione, si ha devotamente— dolci—mente—dolcemente—devote, owero una rappresentazione dei concetti metricamente valorizzati in questo passaggio. Inoltre, i versi 15 c 16 sono interamente strutturati attorno all’assonanza di /e/—chefece mE mE uscir di mEnte;! e I’altre poi dolcEmente e dEvote^— legando ritmicamente le due terzine insieme (il verso 16 e I’inizio di una nuova terzina) cosi da prolungare metricamente il suono di queUe “dolci note”. Anche in questo esempio la dolcezza e dunque associata al canto, e ad un certo senso di attesa pet la salvezza—^I’inno intonato difatti e una pteghiera “a Dio [per] protezione contro le tentazioni” (Chiavacci, Meridiani, 235)”, sicuramente noto a ogni lettore del tempo siccome “pet Dante, come per ogni medievale, I’esperienza liturgico-musicale accompagnava ogni momento deU’esistenza fin dalla prima fanciullezza” (Salvetti, 16).

” Grazie aU’accento di quarta sillaba, la “e” e la “a” sono separate da una dieresi. Le vocah in maiuscolo denotano le assonanze che ticadono sugh accent! metric! deU’endecasiUabo. ” L’inno in questione sarebbe “Te lucis ante terminum / return creator poscimus / ut pro tua dementia / sis praesul et custodia”.

Cic) nonostante, I’apparizione seguente del vocabolo sembra contraddire quanto stabilito fino ad ora, apparendo in Purgat/mo XIV, neUa terrazza dcgli invidiosi: Wow so chi sia, ma so ch’e’ non e solo; domandal tu che piii t’amicini, e dolcemente, si che parli, acco ’lo

{Pur. XIV, 4-6)

E un pcnitcntc che parla in discorso diretto, rivolgendosi al suo vicino e pregandolo di interpeUare Dante; poeticamente parlando, quest! versi non sono ricchi e notabili come gli esempi precedenti. Infatti, Tunica tecnica poetica che enfatizza il “dolcemente” al verso 6 e un’alhtterazione di /d/ e /I/ con “domandal” (v. 5): le due parole sono anche poste aU’apertura del verso, e cio risulta in una specie di anafora ritmica, che ripete gU stessi suoni ad inizio verso. Si osserva dunque un’enfasi ritmica, anche se non si pud certo dire che la dolcezza sia poeticamente celebrata in grande stile come negh esempi precedenti, e per di piu la dolcezza non e neanche associata al canto o aha musica. Cid nonostante, un elemento comune a tutti tre i casi esiste se si prende passo indietro: in tutti i casi di dolcezza ihustrati, Dante glorifica il verbo, la parola in se—in questo ultimo caso, la dolcezza e legata al domandare e aU’acct)ghere (cfr. v. 6). Effettivamente, Tidea deUa dolcezza deUapavella e presente neUa Commedia sin dai primi inizi, quando nel Canto II t\e&’lnferno Virgiho fa referenza aha domanda di Beatrice. L’importanza del verbo e un’idea centrale neUa teologia cristiana, oppure come la definisce Aidan Nichols, “the idea of the Living and Creative Word of God” (Nichols, 23): Dit) crea attraverso la parola, “Nel principio era la Parola e la Parola era presso Dio, e la Parola era Dio. Egli (la Parola) era nel Principio con Dio” {Giovanni, 1:12)—teologia a parte, e dunque fondamentale pensare a cid in relazione a Dante, un poeta Cristiano medievale. Per lui, la poesia stessa e un veto e proprio strumento di salvezza: nel Canto XVII del Paradiso, il suo antenato Cacciaguida annuncia esphcitamente questo suo destino (cfr. v. 124-142), nel quale la voce di Dante sara “come vento / che le piu alte cime piu percuote” (v. 133-134). Inoltre, e possibilc approfondire questo ragionamento uthizzando Stevens, h quale nota che “Dante, I beheve, felt the music of poetry and the music of music to be much closer akin as constructs in sound then we do” (Stevens, 13)—h dolce parlare e dunque essenzialmente Tequivalente di musica in Dante. Unendo questo discorso aU’idea teologica deUa Parola, si pud finalmente intravedere come la dolcezza deha parola, la sua musicahta, figurativamente conduce aha salvezza neUa Commmecda. L’unione deU’elemento musicale e verbale si attua in Dante attraverso la poesia, grazie a una specie di “Concordia discors" (Monterosso, 83) che produce Tassociazione poetica di due element! opposti—il cantare e il parlare.

In luce di tutto cid, si pud anahzzare Tultima apparizione deha dolcezza nel Purgatorio con una chiave ben piu precisa. Si tratta del Canto XXXI, h momento del bagno

purificatorio di Dante nel flume Lete: Quandofuipresso a la heata riva,

‘Asperses me’ si dolcemente udissi, che nolso rimembrar, non ch’io lo scriva

{Pur. XXXI, V.

Poeticamente, questo momento si distacca ancora di piu dai precedenti esempi: il “dolcemente”, infatti, non e per niente enfatizzato direttamente. Nonostante cid, I’udire e messo in rilievo tramitc I’allitterazione della /s/ nel verso 98—'ASperpeS me’ Si dolcemente udiSSi—e la consonanza di “si” e “udissi” in fine rima. Per di piu, la cesura creata dall’accento di quarta siUaba (che cade su “me”) neUo stesso verso separa ritmicamente la liturgia dalla narrazione, enfatizzando dunque tramite il rallentamento del ritmo, prima il canto in se, poi il dolce udire. Il vocabolo “dolcezza” e messo in valore quasi indirettamente: esso e associato semanticamente e tramite la sintassi aU’udire, il quale e a sua volta messo in valore poeticamente insieme alia liturgia. Ponendo attenzione al canto, e possibile discemere la natura di questa dolcezza: la citazione fa parte del Miserere {Ps. 50, 9), un inno che Secondo “I’Ottimo e il Landino [...] si recitava nella liturgia della penitenza quando il sacerdote spargeva I’acqua sul peccatore” (Chiavacci, Meridian!, 922)—una pratica certamente nota a Dante, e che rispecchia perfettamente il rituale del l^te nel canto.

Finalmente, si pud tracciare un filo fra questi diversi esempi se si tiene conto di cid che e stato detto nella pagina 5 e 6 sul valore della Parola in teologia e sul rapporto dantesco fra la musica e la poesia. La “dolcezza” nel Pur^atorio e sempre poeticamente associata al verbo poetico e musicale: persino il penitente che domanda nel Canto XIV e dolce nel suo parlare, ed effettivamente la sua richiesta e una preghiera, proprio come le liturgie cantate negh altri esempi—gli inni hturgici sono infatti spesso mono-tonali, e sembrano quasi parlati. La favella e dolce nel Purgatorio perche e una nuova promessa di salvezza certa, speciahnente dopo che il lettore e uscito SoSllnfemo, ed essa e indissolubilmente legata alia poesia che conduce alia grazia. Sarebbe dunque interessante vedere come il significato di questa medesima dolcezza evolve una volta fatto ingresso nel Paradiso', incontrato il topos dell’ineffabile, essa diventera il suono stesso della grazia divina, e non solo una promessa come nel Purgatorio.

Bibliography:

Alighieri, Dante. Inferno. Ed. Chiavacci Leonard! Anna Maria. Milano: A. Mondadori, 1991. Print. Meridiani. Ahghieri, Dante. Purgatono- Ed. Chiavacci Leonard! Anna Maria. Milano: A. Mondadori, 1994. Print. Meridiani.

Alighieri, Dante. Paradiso. Ed. Chiavacci Leonard! Anna Maria. Milano: A. Mondadori, 1997. Print. Meridiani. Beccaria, Gian Luigi. Uantonomia Del Significanle: Figure Det Pdtmo E Della Sintassi, Dante, Pascoli, D'Annunsjo. Prima ed. Torino: G. Einaudi, 1975. Print. Boccaccio, Giovanni. Vita Di Dante. Ed. Paolo Baldan. Bergamo: Moretti & Vitali, 1991. Print. Monterosso, R. MusicaE Poesia Nel De Vulgari Eloquentia. Ravenna: n.p., 1965. Print.

Nichols, Aidan. Shape of Catholic Theologg: An Introduction To Its Sources, Principles, and Historji. A<lirC Plack, 2003. Print.

Salvetti, Guido. La Componente Musicale NelMondo Poetico Di Dante. Milano: Cisalpino-La Goliardica, 1988. Print.

Stevens, John. Dante and Music. Cambridge: n.p., 1968. Print

‘Angclus Novus” by Jonathan Epstein

I inherited three things from my grandmother a propensity to bullshit, a fear of death, and the Yiddish language. I have never felt ill-equipped. I could not recite the Kaddish at her funeral.

Robert Antelme was rescued from Dachau by two friends, Francois Mitterand and Georges Beauchamps. Before being captured, he weighed nearly fourteen stones. Upon his return, his seventy-seven pound frame had to be carried up the stairs to his apartment on Rue SaintBenoit there were no muscles left in his legs to support his body. He could not eat sohd food for months—such concepts had been forgotten in the ranks of the Kommando. A doctor from India told him that he did not need to speak, that everything would be ptjssible in due time, that his appearance was “elegant” enough to fiU several books. He nearly died of heart comphcations on his third day back in Paris; he had crawled to his desk but could not form latinate characters with his quivering pen. He would later describe this sensation of weakness as “choking.” Robert Antelme was rescued from Dachau by two friends. Before his capture. Language had weighed nearly fourteen stones. Language needed to be carried up the stairs to its apartment on Rue Saint-Benoit.

Sometimes at night, I could heat their footsteps. They were whispering into intercoms, they were clawing at my belly: —^You, child of Abraham, blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, with Your lungs full of pork and Your tongue slighting Zion, a shanda that our history should die with You! I bought a Stat of David and kept it under my pillow like a child does a tooth. They do not come to me any longer.

CONGREGATION: Hear, O Israel: The Lard our God, The Lard is One.

This was before I understood sorrow, before I mythologized my own hfe

to make sense out of disparate facts, before I became intimate with theory.

I lere is Paul Klee’s “Angelus Novus,” arms outstretched, eunuchoid frame returning to the future while its lazy eye aches for the past. Walter Benjamin beheved that it is History from which the figure takes flight, that History is pihng up just outside the audience’s line of sight. If only we could enlarge the frame, we might see the progression of time’s debris as the Final Storm erases the universe. Benjamin took his hfe in Catalonia: perhaps I am practicing an inexcusable habit of sentimentahty, but I believe that, after staring at Klee’s painting every day for nineteen years, he did not want to be a victim of History. On the list of Mauthausen’s victims, he is conspicuously missing, an empty space where another Jew should be.

The potential of my existence weightlessly trailed in the footsteps of people who ate imagined. I did not know their names until I saw rapture for the first time, could feel time convulsing, coming out of joint. Soft membranes and tissues would ebb and flow hke seaweed, and those who never were or never will be were given some semblance of form, a taste of carbon and magnesium. In natal blackness I learned that trauma, like salt, is borne in the blood, that it afflicts the heart before it attacks the mind. I did not open my eyes again for four years: I learned to read the braille of the dead.

CONGREGATION: ‘For eve^ second of time mas the strait gate through mhich the Messiah might enter... ’’

And then I am the Angelus Novus, the Angel of History, afforded twin luxuries of foresight and hindsight, Cassandra’s kike brother pulled from the ether! O Europe! O modernity! How could they have fucked you hke this? My pupils dilate but stiU I see nothing! I was in the trenches, I am in the ghettos, I have returned but am not the same!

O Lodz! O Lublin! like stars you are so far from me now!

I sat my first Shabbat in Berlin and a woman told me that I must go to Jerusalem, that I must claim my birthright. I laughed and told het the Lipper West Side is the real Promised Land, that I was sorry for her losses, that Ravensbriick and Ramallah are nothing but synonyms. I do not think I will be invited back. CONGREGATION: W'ho’s there?

A professor asks me if I think that survivors of trauma, any trauma, can escape from the grasp of memory. I smile and say —I hope so, then excuse myself to the bathroom where I cry my fucking eyes out. I want so badly for the answer to be yes. I put my ear to the ground, waiting: “There is still some alchemy in the earth.”

CONGREGATION: fJoB'fickle the thoughts ofimen may be! Hon) simple’s unrav’ling time’s weave when Nature’s awipi on holiday and God’s on maternity leave.

The making of this journal would not have been possible without the dedication and hard work of a great number of people (or a number of great people). Thank you Kit Frick, Jay Garcia, Avital Roncll, and the rest of the New York University Comparative Literature Department. Without your unwavering support this endeavor might not have come to fruition. We also thank all those who contributed their work—you challenged our expectations and helped us define the journal as a cohesive whole.

And thankyou for reading. We encourage you to criticize, analyze, and submit to Brio. Above all, we hope it opens up a dialogue wherever it finds you.

The Brio Literary Journal is edited by: Nicole D’Alessio, Editor-in-Chief, majors in Comparative 'Literature with an italian focus.

Chabelly Pacheco, Senior Editor, is ajuniorpursuingGlobalUberal Studies andEatin American Studies. She has studied in Elorenee and is currently in Buenos Aires. Falon Papale, Senior Editor, Ealon Papale is a double major in Global Liberal Studies and Italian Studies with a minor in Creative Writing. She isfluent in Italian and aspires to work in Italian - English literary translation.

Jonathan Epstein, Assistant Editor, is ajunior at NYU's College ofArts <ir Sciences studying Comparative Literature, Philosophy, European Languages, and a slew of otherfascinating subjects that will render him unemployable. Originallyfrom Philadelphia, Jonathan nowfeeb an acute sense of dread whenever leaving the Greater New York areafor more than three days. He is very happy to be a part ofBPdO this year.

Nwakego Nwasike, Assistant Editor, is currently a senior at NYU, majoring in Comparative 'Literature and minoring in French. When she is isn't studying in Bobst,you can find her coffeeshop-hopping in the East Village!'LES, working on what she hopes will be the next "great American novel," binge-watching shows on Netflix, orpretending to play the piano.

Saito, Assistant Editor, concentrates on History, Philosophy, and Worldviews within GLS. She has just returnedfrom ayear at NYU Paris, and is simultaneously pursuing French andpsychology minors.

Jaclyn Shultz, Assistant Editor, is ajunior at NYU studying Media, Culture, and Communication with a dual major in Comparative 'Literature where she isfocusing on German cultural studies. She is also involved in several on-campus organisations, includingMinetta Btview and ACT, or Against Child Trafficking. After spending a semester in Berlin, she hopes to return to Germany post-graduation.

For information on submissions and editorial positions, visit the NYU Comparative I-iterature department website at http://complit.as.nyu.edu/object/complit.ug.brio .