brio. The Fall 2016 Issue

NYU’s under^duate comparative literature journal.

A

/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 literary theory come together, and where the visual arts, theatre, and modem media suggest crucial comparisons. This journal aspires to embody those ideas.

Brio 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 and in any language.

CONTENTS

On His Royal Majesty the Crown Prince of The Democratic Republic ofAmerica Inspired by Voltaire’s First letter on the Quakers Lucky Boy Poems The Symbolism of the Flaming Sword Gas Leak No Flash Photography Please You Are Here A +B Romance of the Grave: Two Voices on Death and Immortality “Lonnrot’s Kalevala: Finnish Passport into Modernity, Home Rule and National Identity ” Ode to Onegin Stanza The Reposition IfI’m Being Honest The Syrian Refugee Crisis: Territoriality and Human Rights Neither Here Nor There Raw, Brutal and undisguised La Conscienza

(above >Jesse Wheaton This image is part of the series A Human Glitch, which explores the soft gradients, curvature, and character of human form in relation to the contrasting, angular, digital, and mathematically patterned distortion of glitch. In this piece, after composing the original image in a forest that grew along a set of abandoned train tracks through West Berlin, I then trained a few neural networks with different 'libraries' of forms, and then blended the differing creative results of their recursive processing into the original image at varying depths.

5

by Shreeya Shandra {top left) Surprises in nature. Found after a summer shower. (below) Second day in Florence, exploring alone. (bottom left) Hotel room views on Admitted Students day at NYU.

6

EDITOR’S NOTE

Recent events have reminded us, the brio community and others, just how important the study of literature, language and culture is, and we will continue to be in the service of cultural dissemination, a spirit of tolerance, and the democratic societies which perpetuate these things. We are thankful for the opportunity to have a place of expression and freedom of cultural exchange within the university in the increasingly vital place of the humanities.

On behalf of the writers, editors and artists who make this journal possible.

Nicole D’Alessio Editor-in-Chief

7

On His Royal Majesty the Crown Prince of The Democratic Republic of America Inspired by Voltaire’s First letter on the Quakers by J. W. Avello

Being of humble origins, as most of us are, and being a brother of the Order of Republican Journalists, I have taken it upon myself to render a more human and relatable image of our royal family. Too often, our betters are idolized, or even vilified, without regard for who they are as people. We all know the rumors. As I see it, they serve only to slander our beloved suzerains. After all, it is impossible for our first king, the great grandfather of the Prince, to have been a racist or a rapist, as the Patriots say. It simply is not possible. He saved us from the crisis of invasion on our southern front, from the menace of the terror in the Middle East, and from the horror of government by and for the people. He even liberated women from the encumbrance of suffrage. He was a king for all of us! And the patriarchy he left behind protects us, even today, with the same ardor of spirit. I would like to prove this, once and for all, as we are entering this great Republic’s centennial year. One bright and windy morning, the first week of May, I visited the Royal Palace in the Capital with the intention of getting to know the real Crown Prince Donald J. Trump IV. Walking along Pennsylvania Avenue, paved in shimmering gold, lined with statues of the Prince’s great ancestors, I saw it, that grandiose structure. Out of a sea of pre-reconstructionist buildings, at number sixteen-hundred on the golden route, rose all fifty floors of the patriarchate, the stout phallus of the Republic, the magnificent Trump Palace. On the lawn awaited models, clothed in bikinis the colors of the Republican flag, representing the glory of the Republican Woman. I was stroked by each of them as they practically carried me to the impressive, golden, diamond-encrusted doors. They opened slowly. A luxurious light flooded out onto me, melting away the cold

• • • 8

shadow of the tower. I recall staring up at the building, reflecting the sky’s bluest hues, just before crossing the threshold. Inside, an enormous atrium encircled me. Nestled between two grand curved staircases, a glass elevator shaft, marked by a large golden “T”, dominated the space. The national anthem played triumphantly over hidden loudspeakers as the elevator began its descent from on high. The doors opened, once it reached the ground, and Inside were four brooding men supporting the Prince’s sedan chair. When the anthem finished playing, the Prince’s bearers approached me. I bowed low, kissing my legs, as custom demands, sweating, nervous, and Impatient to meet him. “Who are you?” asked the Prince, lounging in his chair, clothed in a lavish Nike sweat suit. Shocked by his sincerity and informal tone, I quickly explained my situation and my mission to him, and without saying a word, he beckoned me to the elevator and we rode up to the fiftieth floor: his chambers. “Tell me, journalist, are you impressed? I have the best home of all. It’s simple, sure, but it’s mine and it’s the best.” “Yes, your Majesty, everyone says so.” - “Friend, can I call you friend? Eh, whatever, friend, as you can see, I am just a regular guy! 1 live in a house, I eat, I shit, I love women! We all... we are equal!” exclaimed the Prince, waving his arms in a sweeping motion so as to include everyone in the room in his statement. “I insist on that! I am the Prince of the people; I try as much as possible to live my live as any average subject would. I even go on walks out by the edge of my city to experience life in the slum, and help out the small businesses over there. Look! You see this necklace. I wear it every day, it’s made of trash! The poor people are so ingenious and thrifty! They’re so amusing,” he continued. I wrote down every word he said. His tone was truly very sympathetic: 1 was infatuated by him and his way of speaking, so simple and fluid. He does not see his riches as a social obstacle between him and the people. He feels very much like one of us! • • • 9

He left me with this: “When you write about the royal family, describe us as the family that always has and always will defend yours, a family for the people and of the people. And describe me as a friend, because that is what I am to all of you.”

Lucky Boy Poems by Greg Drozdek LUCKY BOY The Boy said he was hungry. Father asked Uncle for his knife and called the dog over. He told the boy to get the big pot from the stove. The dog licked The Father’s hand as Uncle held the pot under his throat. The Boy said that he was no longer hungry. Uncle took back his knife. Father said, “You are a lucky boy." THE MEN ’S ROOM In 1980, when Reagan got shot on TV, that summer, when I was seven, 1 was exiled from the women’s locker room at Rhinelander’s Swimming Pool to my father in the Men’s room, a den of cigar smoke and cursing chess players - not as nice as the ladies’ room. I was kicked out for staring at Brain Murphy’s mom’s triangle. I heard men at the bar say they wanted some of her. And I was looking at her and her triangle because 1 heard that triangles were where babies came from, and that if you put your little man in a triangle, you could make a baby. No one in the men’s asked why 1 was sent. From now on, 1 was with the men - looking at the door that said exit, the door a wall - forever. WHO KICKS A PIGEON? Who kicks a pigeon? I don’t mean by accident. 1 mean, you see it there, old and all fucked up, one leg not working. And, there’s a few other ones around, but, you kick this one. Hard. This man is bigger and younger than 1 am, and... how I look at him does not improve the situation. Is it because, I think, one day, if I make it to be old and fucked up, someone’s gonna come by and kick me? Or, am 1 honestly and • • • 11

truly a pigeon rescuer? Am I identifying too much with this old fucked up bird? Or, is it that I recognize some brazen arrogance in this young man, some cruelty once known to me in my street days? The fist fight between us does not happen. Almost, but not. He keeps walking, and I go to the bird. It’s recovered a bit, eating seeds again. Has it forgotten the kick?

DON’T TALK POLITICS WITH THE WAITRESS Don't talk politics with the waitress. She will not agree. "Everything is better in my country: the bread, the honey, and the tea." Don't talk art with the waitress. She will not be moved to care. "You are all spoiled children here." Her smile, a stare. But, if you ask for her number, and can read the no in her eye, , You will walk her home after closing. Taste her bread, her honey, her tea.

DEAR GIRL Dear Girl, If you find me unready, distracted, mad or unsteady. Come back later. The fact is that your arrival coincides with me falling short of myself. Come back tomorrow. I'll be teaching children, helping the elderly, keeping the peace. But today. I'm not fit for battle. Come back tomorrow. I'll be ready then.

• • • 12

BLIND CROSSING 1 thought that the blind man was talking to himself. I was wrong. “Don’t fuck nobody ain't your own age.” “Sir, can 1 cross you?" “1 can cross my own damn self!” He shows me his eyes under his shades. They worked. “Don’t fuck nobody not the same age as you - don’t be a dirty old man, is what 1 say! When you younger, sure, get yourself an older gal! She can teach you. But,when you get older, no young one can teach you to be young! That’s what I’m saying! You got be with a woman your own age after, forty. Don’t embarrass yourself. What the fuck you staring at?” “Six months, doctor says I’ll be blind, I see you, but you just a big shady, grey looking thing. I’m practicing now for when I can’t see, but, 1 keep opening my eyes. It’s hard not to cheat!” He’s let me take him by the arm and cross him - blind practice. “I hope when I can’t see, nobody rob me.” “Yes, sir.” “Don’t forget to look at the world. You never know when you won’t get another chance.” And, he’s gone. 1 look up. I look all over.

The Symbolism of the Flaming Sword by Imad Jafar

And from on high come forth and down descend, 1 saw two Angels with two flaming swords. Truncated and deprived of their points. Dante'

For the cherub with his flaming sword is hereby commanded to leave his guard at tree of life, and when he does, the whole creation will be consumed, and appear infinite. William Blake^

Of passionate Affection, sigh’d 'Alas— And stopp’d—But with the morning Sword of Flame That ope’d his Eyes the sterner Angel's came For the forbidden Word not utter’d by Thy Lips was yet sequester'd in that Sigh.’ FarTd ud-DTn Attar’

The symbol of the flaming sword, or of a fiery weapon more generally, is one that appears in the mythologies and religions, of numerous civilizations. For instance, the Book of Genesis tells us that Adam, after having eaten of the forbidden fruit, was barred from the Tree of Life by way of a flaming sword that God had placed in front of it to keep the patriarch from continuing to eat of that plant of immortality. The scripture states: “And he cast out Adam, and placed before the Paradise of pleasure

''Purgatorio 7. ^The Marriage of Heaven and Hell 14. ^Mantiq - ut- Tayr 31-37 • • • 14

Cherubims, and a flaming sword, turning every way,'* to keep the way of the Tree of Life.”^ In this particular case, the flaming aspect of the sword serves to convey above all the notion of the “Divine Fire,” which is a symbol of the Absolute that often suggests the more fearful divine attributes such as God’s capacity for judgment and wrath.Genesis’ use of the symbol, therefore, seems to testify to that same metaphysical truthwhich the pre-Socratic Greek philosopher Heraclitus was to consider at a later date, when he said: “Fire^ in its advance will judge and convict all things.”^ According to Hippolytus, the "turning" of the sword is of great significance as well, "for if the flaming sword be not brandished,

that good tree will be destroyed and perish" {Refutation 6:12). Thomas Aquinas, meanwhile, posited a more Aristotelian interpretation of the sword's movement: "Apart from the mysteries of the spiritual

interpretation ... the 'flaming sword,' which is described as 'turning every way'... [is] appropriate to the circular movement that causes ... heat"

{Summa Theotogica 2:2, Q. 164, art. 2, resp. 5; cf. John of Damascus, De orthodox fide 3:15). ^Genesis 3:4. ® Regarding Heraclitus' use of "Fire," it is indeed strange that few modern scholars ever consider the possibility that the philosopher may very well have been speaking of "a Transcendent and Universal Fire, of which our fires are only pale reflections" (Ananda K. Coomaraswamy, "Measures of Fire," in Roger Lipsey (ed.), Coomaraswamy: Selected Papers, Vol. Il: Metaphysics [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1977], p. 160; cf. Frithjof Schuon, Light on the Ancient Worlds [Bloomington: World Wisdom Books, 2006], p. 52: "In the terminology of the ancient religions one must allow for symbolism: when Thales saw in "water" the origin of all things, we have every reason to believe that it is the Universal Substance—the Prakriti of the Hindus—and not the sensible element. It is the same with the "air" of Anaximenes of Miletus or of Diogenes of Apollonia, or with the "fire" of Heraclitus) rather than of the natural element, especially as the revealing words of Fragment 67, "God ... takes various shapes, just as fire ... is named according to the savor of each," seem to indicate the former. Cf. Fragment 20: "That Kosmos, the • • • 15

It is worth remembering, moreover, that St. John Cassian, who spoke of “the fiery sword of the Holy Spirit,”^ rightly compared the burning weapon of the Genesis narrative with an example drawn from ancient Greek legend. The Church Father states; “The tales of poets tell us that the ancient hydra only gained by its injuries, for when its heads were cut off, they sprang up more abundantly: so that owing to a miracle of a strange and unheard-of kind ... loss proved a kind of gain to the monster ... [and, indeed,] that extraordinary fecundity doubled everything which the knife of the executioner cut off, until the

identity of all things, no one of gods or man hath ever wrought, but it ever was, and is and ever shall be everliving Fire, in measures being kindled and in measures dying out," regarding which see Lipsey (ed.), Coomaraswamy II, p. 164. ^Fragment 66. Let it not be assumed that the symbol of fire is employed in an exclusively stern or "negative" sense by the ancient philosophical and religious doctrines. For example, Cyril of Jerusalem gives us both a "positive" and a "negative" symbolism in the same sentence in Catechetical Lectures 17:15: "A fiery sword barred of old the gates of Paradise whilst a fiery tongue which brought forth salvation restored the gift," the "fiery tongue" being the tongue of Christ, who, according to Matthew 7:29, spoke "as one having power and not as the scribes" (cf. Acts 2:3: "And there appeared unto them [the apostles] cloven tongues like as of fire, and it sat upon each of them"). Other examples of positive fire symbolism in Christian thought include: Jeremiah 23:29: "Is not My word like as a fire? saith the Lord"; Daniel 7:9: "I beheld till the thrones were cast down, and the Ancient of Days did sit... His throne was like the fiery flame, and His wheels as burning fire"; Matthew 3:11: "I indeed baptize you with water unto repentance: but he that cometh after me is mightier than I... he shall baptize you with the Holy Ghost, and with fire"; Apocalypse 1:14: "His eyes were as a flame of fire"; Gregory the Great, Ep. 29: "Now we pray Almighty God that He would both kindle the heart of your glory with the fire of His grace to perform what we have spoken of"; Jacob Boehme, Signatura rerum 14:29; "The Fire is the principle of every life," etc. ®On the Incarnation 1:1. • •• 16

man’ who was eagerly seeking its destruction, toiling and sweating, and finding his efforts so often baffled by useless labors, added to the courage of battle the arts of craft, and by the application of fire, as they tell us, cut off with a fiery sword"’ the manifold offspring of that monstrous body, and so when the inward parts were thus burnt, cauterizing the rebellious throbbings of that ghastly fecundity, at last those prodigious births were brought to an end.”” Thus, in the myth of the Hydra, the flaming sword again symbolizes the aforementioned notion of Divine Justice. In this particular case, Hercules’ subduing of the monster by way of his burning weapon signifies the manner in which the Divinity subdues earthly disorder through the “consuming fire”'^ of His Justice. Interestingly, it is with reference to the Hercules myth that Cassian speaks of the “the fiery sword of the Holy Spirit,” which he says may be used to “cauterize” the birth of heterodoxy. Cassian thus places heterodoxy in parallel with the Hydra and in opposition to the gladium spiritus,’^that celestial weapon which is in all actuality none other than a metaphor for the Word of God'‘*“more piercing than any two edged sword ... reaching unto the division of the

® Hercules. In the most popular version of the myth, Hercules uses a firebrand and not specifically a sword; nevertheless, the symbolism remains the same. "On the Incarnation 1:1. In the most popular version of the myth, a special sword given to Hercules by Athena cuts off the last "immortal head" of the Hydra. Exodus 20:14; Deuteronomy 4:24, 9:3; Judges 6:21; 2 Samuel 22:19; Psalms 18:8, 50:3; Isaiah 29:6, 30:27, 33:14; Jeremiah 5:14; Lamentations 2:5; Joel 2:5; Hebrews 12:29. ” Ephesians 6:17: "sword of the Spirit." Rene Guenon, "Hermes," Studies in Comparative Religion (Vol. 1, No. 2; originally published in 1932), note 8; "The sword, in its highest sense, is a figure of Wisdom and the power of the Word." Cf. Apocalypse 1:16: "And from his [the Word's] mouth came out a sharp two edged sword: and his face was as the sun shineth in his power." • • • 17

soul and the Spirit, of the joints also and the marrow ... [discerning both] the thoughts and intents of the heart.” ’’ This notion of the flaming sword as being symptomatic of Divine Justice—underscored in both the Genesis narrative and the Greek myth—is also alluded to in the Apostolic Constitutions, an early Christian legal document which specifies that those who bear false witness against their neighbor, accusing their fellow citizen of a crime they never committed, shall be delivered “to the fiery sword.”"’ Evidently, the symbol’s use in this particular instance is one purely legal, metaphorically alluding to state punishment in a general sense. Hence, what is of greater interest to us is the manner in which the ancient patristic writers employed the symbol on the more profound level of theology and metaphysics; as, for instance, St. Jerome did, when he linked the flaming sword of Genesis to the blood of Jesus, stating; “The flaming sword that keeps the way of paradise and the cherubim that are stationed at its doors are alike quenched and unloosed by the blood of Christ.”'^ Thus, from the Christian point of view, the blood of the incarnate logos is understood to have “quenched,” so to speak, the flame of the sword—a symbolic means of expressing the Christ’s triumph over death and the Fall of Man.’^ The apocryphal Gospel of Nicodemus only elaborates further on this same symbolism. In this early text, Dismas,” the “Good Thief,” narrates his entry into Heaven Hebrews 4:12.

'^Apostolic Constitutions 5:42. ^^Ep. 63. Cf. Ep. 39:4; "Christ had not yet broken open the door of paradise nor quenched the flaming sword with his blood"; Meister Eckhart, Sermon on John 6:44; "Out of Thy fatherly compassion.... bend and look on me [Christ].... and slake the fiery sword with which in the angel's hands Thou hast barred the way to Paradise, that all who have repented and bewailed their sins through me, may enter therein." ^®This doctrine reminds one of the famous h adith qudsi related by the Prophet Muhammad: "My mercy taketh precedence over My wrath" (narrated byAh mad ibn Hanbal). 19 See Luke 23:39-43. • • • 18

thus: “I came toward Paradise carrying my cross ... and the flaming sword, witnessing the sign of the cross, opened to me, and I went in.”^® Here again, we see the miracle of Christ triumphing over the primeval punishment of the flaming sword.“' Having surveyed several Christian interpretations of the flaming sword, we may now consider a Jewish elucidation on the same symbol. Philo states that the fiery sword constitutes, first and foremost, “a symbol of the sun,”“ for “[it] is a collection of an immense body of flame ... the swiftest of all existing things, to such a degree that in one day [it] revolves round the whole world.Elsewhere, the same philosopher writes that the fiery sword “symbolically intimates the heaven: for the air is of a flaming color, and turns itself round, revolving about the universe,”^'* and that “the sun ... is indicated by the flaming sword.”25While elucidations of this variety are distinctly Aristotelian in nature, Philo’s other insights are more directly Platonic. For example, he explains that the flaming sword is a symbol of Reason, for it suggests “a prompt and fiery reason combined with action, which never ceases being in motion with rapidity and energy to the selection of good objects, and the avoidance of all such as are evil.’’^*’ According to Philo, then, the

^°Gospel of Nicodemus 10 (26). The flaming sword continued to be portrayed in a fearful manner by

the Church Fathers, as is evident from the words of Gregory Nazianzen after the death of Basil the Great: "Now Basil... received no injury from

the tree of knowledge, and escaped the flaming sword, and, as I am well assured, has attained to Paradise" (Orations 43:70).

the Cherubim 8 (26). Ibid.

^^Questions and Answers on Genesis 57. 25 Ibid. 25On the Cherubim 9 (30). • • • 19

symbol of the flaming sword is one intrinsically linked to the virtues: to peace justice, balance, and so on and so forth. Up until now, we have only discussed the symbolism of the flaming sword in light of Western sources; let us now turn to several Eastern examples of the same motif. In Mahayana Buddhism, we find that the celestial bodhisattva ManjusrT is often portrayed in traditional iconography wielding a flaming sword. In the hand of the bodhisattva, the sword symbolizes the Transcendent Wisdom (Skr. prajna, Pali panna; cf. the Christian interpretation of logos, in which case the Word is similarly considered the “Wisdom of the Father”) that enables man to cut through the ignorance ofsarnsara. Indeed, this profound symbolism is in absolute concordance with the famous words of the apostle that we related earlier, which proposed that the logos is “more piercing than any two edged sword.”^** In both cases, the Divine Wisdom is likened to the symbol of the sword for it is held to pierce through the “wound of duality” or ignorance in order to reach the stable shore of the Absolute. Another Buddhist personage that wields a similar sword is the Vajrayana dharmapala*’ Acala, who has been depicted in Japanese art since the Heian period as holding a vajra-sword (Japanese: kongb-ken), which, more often than not, is not

2^This connection between the idea of virtue and the symbol of the flaming sword is also underscored in an image sometimes found in heraldic symbolism, namely that of an eagle grasping a flaming sword in its claws, a symbol which Rene Guenon likened to the Greek representation of "lightning in the grasp of Jupiter's eagle." Interestingly, the two motifs are sometimes mentioned together in traditional sources as, for example, in the Book of Enoch: "And I [Enoch] beheld [in a heavenly vision] ... a bow of fire, and arrows in their quiver, a sword of fire, and every species of lightning" (I Enoch 17:3). Hebrews 4:12. This word literally denotes "Dharma-defender," and is used to describe a specific type of fearful or wrathful deity that is venerated as protector in Vajrayana Buddhism. In a sense, their role in Vajrayana Buddhist temples is analogous to that of gargoyles in Medieval art. • • • 20

flaming itself but is surrounded by the dharmapala’s fire. Nevertheless, the symbolism’s significance still holds true, for here, again, the flaming sword seems to represent nothing other than the wrathful aspect of the Divinity a symbolism that actually brings us back to Genesis’ use of the symbol to signify God’s wrath. To conclude, then, our short study, we can affirm that the flaming sword is a symbol common to both East and West, appearing primarily in the Buddhist and Judeo-Christian traditions, respectively. Whether held by a celestial bodhisattva or brandished by an angel, the flaming sword ultimately stands as another fundamental symbol of that universal and unanimous tradition—“termed in Hinduism the Sanatana Dharma, and in Islam, the Din al-Fitra”^°—often referred toas the Philosophia Perennis.

Reza Shah-Kazemi, "Tradition as Spiritual Function: A 'Perennialist Perspective,'" Sacred Web 1 (Summer 2001). • • • 21

Gas Leak by Matt Cavagnero Beloved son When the thunder struck did The sound wave reach your ear. Restless particles Vibrating against the Body of matter and gravity, Or was it all silence Siren screeches?

■

They whisper the walls down And the smoke licks out from the rubble And I saw it First on my phone Before rushing out of my apartment in the ABC’s Sprinted to 7th and 2nd To see the the circus I double-knotted the laces of my [Optical white Chuck Taylor’s, 49.99 -2% student discount, eligible for FREE Two-Day shipping]

And in that whiteness I first saw sun But in the smoke chimney 7th street The mirage was unsustainable and the White became abyss to me And the helicopter blades severed the air Into sinusoidal hands that tugged at my shirt And stuttering sound emissions That shook the flames ••• 22

That stretched like cat spines Reaching upward towards the sky

Tadasana. Mountain pose of smoke Fingers of rippling heated air curling up in prayer and pushing The last structures down into the Earth and A plume of grey ash bloomed out in every direction And suddenly you could see into the windows Of the building next-door Like peeling back the bark from the stalk and Revealing the cellular structures within the walls And the whiteness captured them, the starers standing in their windows Their view of brick and mortar replaced by the trickle of siren lights and shimmering reflections through the smoke And they stood there, naked and in awe Looking out at a sudden emptiness A new angle of space within the familiar cross street And the city looking back at them In mutual surprise and understanding And I felt a sudden shame at looking in at the intimacy of that moment And turned away and noticed that my White shoes had turned grey

No Flash Photography, Please by Matt Cavagnero

Great wolf, Naked in the hall, fallen From its grave, staked to the wall. All in, long-noon casts your shadow Massive maw, but it’s hollowed, howlSong soon finds moon But no applause, long thaw Tongue pause

Listen, Sister , i Frozen lung, still hung from its Rib rung cavity Archaic wasted being Pleistocene tune through speaker coils new over­ Head, press play. Sister, listen again But no breaths, okay. Lest the air from your chest sway The frozen flesh and fur and fangs , Hanging close, wet nose, , Fiendish mane That quivers and shakes Oscillates with the warming air As lungs inflate and share The same tune to a new Affectionate moon

You Are Here by Joe Viola

I am merely a passionate person. I long for things. 1 set them in fiery motion. 1 remain present from their inception to their demise; a journey of which I control. This principle exudes from the red neon sign that hangs on the blank white tile of my bathroom. It flashes to remind me. To remind me that 1 am in control. He seemed to believe otherwise, though. I first saw him one morning, above my bath-room sink and next to the sign. He stared at me, his smugness gushing through his pale lips. He was silently challenging my control. So, I simply stared right back. I did not even blink, hoping the natural stinging sensation that would soon rise from his eyes would cause him to flinch. But he just continued on to stare, the whites of his eyes growing as rapidly as my own. I accepted this draw, and turned away, leaving the neon the only presence to keep him company, as it had so long for me. Before I left the room, 1 could have sworn I saw him wink at me. His existence in my life now intrigued me as much as it challenged me. Or, perhaps, his challenges were what intrigued me. Either way, I found myself pulled into the bathroom at al­ most every moment, longing for the next move he would make. I was not sure what his intent was, but I also did not care. His likeness to my own self was enticing. He seemed to understand me, to feel my emotions, and to unlock the inner workings of my subconscious. If 1 smiled, he smiled back, showcasing his perfectly aligned, pearly teeth. If 1 frowned, he frowned back, his mouth arched so beautifully along the edges of his chiseled jawline. The way his hand plowed through his slick hair whenever 1 stroked mine almost, made me feel his own. I imagined it was untangled, but still rather coarse, a signal that he was clean but also amply rugged. I initially kept my distance to • •• 25

maintain the intrigue of my imagination. Plus, physically interacting with him at an all-too-soon time may have been what he wanted, which would go against my control.

I maintained this control for as long as I wanted to. I put myself at the center of responsibility because 1 knew no one else would have been able to pull it off. Other humans disappoint me. They lack a true core; they do not feel anything. The second 1 rely on one I find myself alone, physically, but more emotionally than 1 ever have before. 1 wanted no part of that lifestyle. The only person standing in my way was me, which comforted me. To prepare for my routine shower one night, I entered the bathroom only to find him once again waiting for me. I glanced above the sink to see that he too had removed his shirt, his brown hair slightly messy from doing so. 1 could only see from his collarbone up, and while this bone structure was angelic, 1 wanted more. I decided to step closer to him, to get a better look at the rest of his body. He obviously felt the same. We were almost face to face now, his steely eyes unblinking as they so frequently were. My hand instinctively rose up, in a desire to touch his face, the face that mimicked the emotions of my own, the one that drew me in further each day, but I refrained. It was too soon. 1 stepped back, took off the rest of my clothes, and stepped into the shower, not looking back at him once.

My shower felt lonely. The icy water stung my skin as it always did, but it was not piercing me the way 1 wanted it to. 1 wanted to feel my blood pinching for release right beneath my pores. Now I felt nothing. A sort of nothing that would not disappear while 1 was alone. 1 needed him, I knew I did, and he knew 1 did. So what was I waiting for? I was in control no matter what, so the decision to further things along was always mine. 1 turned the water off, ripped the shower curtain to the side and leapt out of the tub. It was almost instantly 1 saw him there, waiting for me, his hair similarly dripping water. We stared for a second, his

••• 26

eyes twinkling with anticipation and his mouth smirked to one side. Water dribbled slowly down his cheeks and onto his shoulder blades as I realized we moved within one inch of each other. My neon sign flashed gracefully in my periphery. His nakedness was palpable and 1 felt the water evaporating from his pale body. I decided to meet him halfway with the iciness of my skin as I kissed his lips. They were smooth, slippery, and seductive. The rhythm we built up was supported by the stickiness of our lips, as if they were meant to stay together. They did, for the rest of the night, as we continued with mutual satisfaction, only breaking away sporadically to look into each other’s eyes.

The following days were filled with bliss. We continued our love affair, learning more about each other along the way. We reveled in our similarities. He lived alone too, and also ap-preciated the enticement of the night. We delegated most of our extended encounters to the night-time, to ensure privacy and intimacy. When 1 was not with him, he permeated my thoughts. I was curious as to how we were so similar, as he seemed like such a reflection of myself. This worried me, too; what did it mean to be attracted to someone so similar to me?

I also wondered what would happen if we ever became slightly different. What would the difference be? Where would it come from? How would it make me feel? 1 was not sure if I could bear it. Or, on the other hand, would the similarities grow boring? What would 1 learn from him if I already knew the answers to all the questions 1 asked him? 1 tried to distract myself away from these thoughts, but they too often kept reappearing. Still, we continued seeing each other whenever I was in the bathroom, and I was excited nonetheless.

During one encounter, between kisses, I noticed some acne on his face that had previous-ly not been there. This concerned me. ••• 27

We both took such great care of our skin, so why any spots were forming confused me. I leaned closer to his glass box, to his previously perfect face, to ex-amine the Imperfections. 1 turned away with mostly confusion, and stepped into the shower, the neon flashes guiding me along the way. Out of curiosity, and with dread, 1 reached my hand up to feel my face, and discovered that I, too, had tiny zits protruding from my previously silky skin. 1 felt rather defeated. Would his imperfections now be evident in myself? Contrary to my desired beliefs, it seemed so.

I was afraid to look at him again. I was afraid to see what other flaws might pop up as time moved on. Pimples were one thing, petty even, but what if his hair started going grey? What if he started losing his hair altogether? What if his eyes sagged? What if his teeth yellowed? 1 did not want these horrors to happen to me. Our initial similarities were intriguing, enticing. I was obsessed with getting to know him. Soon 1 started growing more and more suspicious that he was out to destroy me. I knew I would be ruined with his imperfect self in my life. But how could I move on from him? It seemed impossible. I was addicted to his existence, something that became clearer to me. This caused my control to waver, and 1 could no longer deal with the falsehood that he surrounded our relationship with. He was a fabrication, one that existed purely because 1 allowed it to. At this point, 1 never wanted to see him again.

After avoiding the room the entire day, I finally entered the bathroom, late. It was still our usual meeting time, but that night I did not initiate anything. We just stared at each other, the red sign the only thing illuminating us. 1 looked from the lips I used to crave so much into the steely eyes that matched mine too well, and he looked back. Our stares were mutually different than before. The allure in our eyes was not of seduction, but of barbarity. My thirst for blood was also clear in his eyes, and this

• •• 28

set me off. I was fed up with the similarities. The mutuality was infuri-ating. I was my own person and he wanted to corrupt that.

I lunged toward the rectangular box, grabbing at its sides, remaining yet another inch away from his face. Our eyes were wide open, our breath rapid. He began to smile, and 1 thrusted my lips onto his, for one farewell kiss. The attraction that once existed between our lips was nonexistent now, his glass truly separating us. I pulled away with confident ease and screamed into his face. My vocal chords burned and veins rose from my temples. The scream he met me with was nothing against my sheer strength, as I pounded my fists into his head and watched his image shatter with the glass that encased him. The shards that emanated swirled around me, dropping to the floor like the water that once dribbled from his face and onto his shoulders. I cascaded with them, the catharsis 1 felt overwhelming me. I felt the piercing sensation 1 longed for in my shower radiating from my hands. I rose them both to my face, and was greeted by thick liquid pooling with a sizzle onto my cheeks. 1 was bleeding, and the blood seeped down my hands and into the open wounds his glass had carved into my arms. The opacity of my blood was saturated by the similar redness of my sign, which continued to flash “You Are Here” and lit the room. 1 felt ever-present in this moment, and crunched up on the glass shards that now cushioned my body. I rejoiced in the blood that dripped down my arms and soaked my clothes, and smiled broadly. 1 felt something, and I could not help but wonder if he was bleeding too.

• •• 29

A+B by Carly Bortman

The telephone isn’t working. Woman B inserts another quarter, her fingers raw from the numbers and cold. Woman A drums her fingers on the table, (diamond ring so big I think he bought it at a fair, put a coin in the slot and out popped love). He’ll never come home, the phone will never work.

Woman A in her cocktail dress — red beads dripping from the hem, feet locked in stilettos, as if herself a skyscraper... Dust bunnies the maid brushed under the Persian rug gaze at her lips, those collagen mistresses reflecting the chandelier.

Below the penthouse, we see Woman B. Earlier in the day she took scissors-an average pair, though she’s a lefty— to her hair, chopped the split ends, trimmed the bangs, made everything as neat as a lefty with scissors can make things. She’s in a telephone booth (it’s a dying art, like letter writing or sex after marriage), calling her boyfriend about her hair.

and so the drumming continues: quarters flying out of Woman B’s purse like hail. Closer to 6 pm now — where is that man, why hasn’t he called? The lamb is getting cold and the evening is growing dark and Woman A’s lipstick is fading. Woman B is running out of loose change, time is slipping and dripping like beads off a while Woman A, in her lofty cocktail dress or glass loft, chandelier, like Woman B’s is standing beside a mahogany fingers on the phone-booth table. Red beads dripping. She glass is waiting as she smears her hand down it for the oven clock to chime, for - ring finger rockless (but him to walk through the door maybe the gem will fall from so that dinner may be served. above). • •• 30

23 and a halfdegrees south, 2016 Paper sculpture and colored incandescent bulb. 7 by 20 inches (sculpture), and 5 ft. tall (entire installation). by Audrey Tseng

• •• 31

Romance of the Grave: Immortality by Rachael Neidinger

Two Voices

on

Death

and

Death, immortality, and eternity serve as important themes in the works of Alexander Pushkin and Emily Dickinson. In Thoughts by Pushkin, the voice of the poem questions death and contrasts the chaotic, noisy world of the living with the silent eternity of the grave. Dickinson takes a different tactic in Because I could not stop for Death, using metaphor and Images to paint a hushed, almost affectionate portrayal of death. Whereas Pushkin is unsettled by the idea of death, Dickinson embraces it. This difference in the treatment of death and the poets’ contrasting views on it may be influenced by their experiences of exile and isolation from society. Pushkin and Dickinson, both 17th century Romantic poets who wrote on themes of individuality and emotional exploration share a more unique connection. They each experienced some sort of exile. Pushkin’s was imposed by the Tsar for political views; Dickinson chose to withdraw herself from society for more personal reasons. This severing of ties with society offered both writers inspiration to explore the questions of the ultimate break with the world at large- death. The role of choice in their respective exiles influences their treatments of the subject matter. Both poems share a similar structure. In each, the voice of the poem moves from society and life to a grave. Pushkin contrasts the busyness of life with the solitude of the grave, giving the reader images of “noisy streets,” that provoke him to think about the brevity of life. This focus situates Pushkin as being a part of society, yet his thoughts and questions about life bring him a certain isolation, which mimics his view final view on death - that of a single grave surrounded by “young life...at play.” His ability to come to terms with the inevitability of death stems from the assurance that life will not be too far away from

• • • 32

his final resting spot, proving that life is more powerful than death. Dickinson, on the other hand, gives the reader only a glimpse of living people, introducing Death as personified by a gentleman, come to take her for a carriage ride. Death’s appearance as a character, and the use of the carriage as a metaphor for the process of life as a journey to the grave references society but only as a vehicle, not as an end in and of itself, as in the way Pushkin’s society remains more concrete. Death as a character also indicates a familiarity between the voice of the poem and the prospect of death. The Intimacy that the metaphor lends the poem demonstrates Dickinson’s more placid attitude toward her subject matter. Though the poems are both progressions from life to death, they part ways in their stylistic choices. These stylistic choices stress the perspectives of the two poets, which further reflect their respective experiences of isolation. By looking at the ways that the poets present their similar subject matter, the similarities become mostly superficial. Pushkin tells the reader exactly what he is thinking about, devoting a whole stanza to direct questions about the nature of his death. The presence of these questions in the middle of his more narrative meditation on death engages the reader directly. Dickinson, in contrast, uses imagery and unspoken connections between the images she chooses and the words she uses to construct them. She engages the reader by forcing the reader to put her ideas together without explicit connections. Pushkin directs the reader; Dickinson guides the reader. The voices of the poems are very different as well. Pushkin’s voice is alive, active and engaged with his ideas and thoughts, using harsh consonants in the original Russian. As the poems shifts from an abrupt, aggressive questioning of death, the words lose their sharpness, and fade into a smoother sound. This shift in his choice of language mimics his transition from resistance to death to tentative acceptance. Pushkin makes excellent use of the words’ sounds, uniting them with feelings. ••• 33

Dickinson chooses simple words to convey her images, looking less to rhyme and more to evoke feelings and images. Her use of hyphens gives the reader one word at a time, visually side by side, connected only by implication. These pauses create an atmosphere of tranquility and patience, which can take the reader off guard in the face of her topic. In addition, her poem’s voice is beyond the grave. This perspective changes the reading of the whole poem. It demonstrates forcefully her peaceful stance on the theme of death. The overall attitudes of the two poets become most apparent in their differences. Pushkin is apprehensive, reminding the reader that Pushkin was forced out of his home. Pushkin’s writing being subjected to punishment of exile creates urgency. The randomness of death is not something that sits well with him. Dickinson’s calm tone evokes her voluntary exile, explaining why death is not something to overcome for her. She even plays with the choice involved in death, with her sardonic first line. Dickinson does not require the assurances or control that Pushkin is looking for. Between the two poems, two very distinct voices address a common theme. Their differences underscore the individual nature of death. Yet, since death is something that awaits everyone, taken together, their poems offer a chance for connection between people, place, and time.

iVorks Cited Dickinson, Emily. "Because I Could Not Stop for Death." The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson. Ed. Thomas H. Johnson. Boston: Little, Brown, 1960. 350. Print. Pushkin, Aleksandr Sergeevich. "As down the noisy streets I wander.” Collected Narrative and Lyrical Poetry. Trans. Walter Arndt. Ann Arbor: Ardis, 1984. 95-96. Print.

• • • 34

“Cuiusregio, eius lingua” “Lonnrot’s Kalevala: Finnish Passport into Modernity, Home Rule and National Identity” by Samuel Moore Few texts have had such a profound influence upon the fate of a people than the Kalevala has had on the Finns. It is impossible to ignore that the advent of Finnish nationalism in the early nineteenth-century coincides with the first dissemination of the newly-compiled Kalevala, Finland’s national epic of Karelian, folkloric songs put into poetic verse. A preeminent product of the pulsing patriotism of the era, Elias Lonnrot (180284) traveled extensively throughout northern Karelia recording peasant singer’s performances, standardizing the language and meter of the lyrics of their songs in an effort to give to his patriawhat Homer’s Iliad gave to Hellenic culture. It is my purpose in this paper to provide evidence that Finland’s road to nationalism, and subsequent independence, is a part of the myriad political and social ramifications of Western phenomenon: Modernity. Consequently, Finland is faced with the pernicious paradox of sovereignty: the homogenization of cultural distinction, i.e. national unity, which reflexively creates social exclusions and political disenfranchisement. The objectivity of the Kalevala in the Finnish canon, as I will posit, is the paramount tool with which the artificial politics of this cultural uniformity (uniformity is always artificially composed and sustained) yoke the Finnish people, spurring them to statehood. For most of its history during the modem period, Finland has been subject to foreign domination. Before 1809 Finland had been for centuries merely an eastern province of the Swedish Empire. Under Sweden, save the peasantry, it was believed that Finns largely relinquished their mother tongue both in and out of the home. Finnish was considered a low language, a vernacular; and was rarely written or spoken by the bureaucracy, church, upper classes or burgeoning bourgeoisie. By the dawn of the

••• 35

nineteenth-century this schism reaches its climax: “[most] common people [Finnish-speakers] and the public functionaries [Swedish-speakers] now no longer were able to understand each other” (Wilson 20), After the Swedish loss in the Napoleonic Wars, Finland became incorporated into the Russian Empire as an autonomous duchy. Both Swedish-speaking Finns and Finnish-speaking Finns naturally felt the threat of imminent Russification. It was at this time a “movement began at the University of Turku... [with] young Finns” (27). These fresh scholars, influenced by the Enlightenment—Rousseau and Newton surely, Hegel, the emergence of Romanticism and most importantly, the author of Sturm und Drang, Johann Gottfried von Herder—formed the first consequential, intellectual resistance to external rule. At the University of Turku, like in many universities of the nineteenth­ century—preaching cultural homogeneity, unification of knowledge, the upholding of a literary cultural canon, etc.—the air of social Decisionism pervaded. However the prospects of Finnish statehood looked dim. Finnish scholar William Wilson emphasizes that the Finns were fragmented, they were “[of] several dialect groups and lacking the binding ties of a common literature and a written record of their national past” (ix). Social anthropologist, Ernest Gellner asserts, “[nationalism] require[s] cultural pools which are large, and/or have a good historic base, or intellectual personnel well equipped to propagate the culture in question” (Gellner 46). Finland had neither rich cultural pools nor good historic bases; yet the nation at that time began to boast a new generation “of dedicated young men displaying their patriotism,” and “Filled,” as Wilson later goes on to add, “with strong pride in their nation’s past and with confidence in its future” (Wilson 18, 44). How they were to propagate Finnish culture, 1 will aver, will be contingent upon Lonnrot and his Kalevala. According to Hegel, “the real history of a nation only begins when it acquires its own state” (Gellner 48). Stateless, devoid of written history, one had to go to “folk poetry to study ••• 36

[the Finnish] past, then, because there was no place else to go” (Wilson 22). The agrarian peasants who boasted this poetry remained largely unaffected—their language and culture unsullied by external influences. It is plausible to imagine that the Herderian scholar would assume these peasants to be the truest, extant manifestation of the pre-modem Finn and true Finnish character. Ldnnrot understood that cultural identity is completely linguistic; and therefore he also understood the virtue and value of the oral tradition of the Finnish Volk—the blueprint, it becomes, of the modem Finnish nation. Walter Benjamin, citing French poet Paul Valery, writes, ‘“Modem man no longer works at what cannot be abbreviated’” (Benjamin 93). Ldnnrot’s work, the work no doubt of a modem man, is indeed no exception. A form of abbreviation, one could argue, is standardization, making shorter the process—in the case of language—of interpretation. This is hitched to the procedure of attaining nationhood; “a modem industrial state can only function with a mobile, literate, culturally standardized [...] population” (Gellner 46). After all, if a “provisionally acceptable criterion of culture might be language” (43), as Gellner puts it, then the Finnish dream of a common culture would be contingent upon a common, standardized lexicon. In the 1830s, after several trips to the Finnish hinterlands and Russian Karelia for peasant folkloric songs—an engraving of one such journeys is captioned: “Unus homo nobiscursandorestituit rem (‘One man by running about is restoring to us our state’)” (Bosley xvii)—Ldnnrotcompiles his field notes into the first edition of the Kalevala. One could liken his project to Nikolai Leskov’s acquaintance of various Russian sects by his extensive travels throughout the tsarist empire for his stories. The Kalevala was first published in 1835-36. “The epic,” Wilson writes, “was immediately declared the equal of most European literature [...] in most respects comparable to the Greek masterpieces” (Wilson 3, 42) The domestic reception was naturally no less laudatory than that of abroad.

••• 37

The peasant singers of the poems, previously seen as uncouth, benighted people, began to be viewed, it appears, as the archetype of the character of a true Finn. The change in opinion follows Gellner’s delineation of the relationship between a ruling culture and its subjugated Volk: There is a certain element of truth in the nationalist self­ preservation when the narodor Volk is ruled by officials of another, and alien high culture, whose oppression must be resisted first by a cultural revival and reaffirmation, and eventually by a war of national liberation. If the nationalism prospers it eliminates the alien high culture, but it does not then replace it by the old local low culture; it revives, or invents, a local high (literate, specialisttransmitted) culture of its own, though admittedly one which will have some links with the earlier local folk styles and dialects (Gellner 57) Most interesting here is that in order for Finland to arrive at its own Humanitat—a term used by Herder to describe the utopian state towards which all nations inevitably progress—not only must the country throw off the yoke of alien high culture (i.e. Swedish, Russian), but must also create a new local high culture, and not merely assume the old low culture (i.e. that of FinnoKaralian agrarian peasantry). In essence, the traditional Finnish Volk, by necessity, would be warped to fit an archetypal image for a nationalist agenda, our first glimpse at the dubious, aforementioned, artificial politics of cultural unification. Amidst the “Fennomania” that followed Lonnrot’s publication of the Kalevala, hardly any Finnish-speakers stopped for a moment to dispute the validity of Lonnrot’s opus (Wilson 38). Benjamin asserts, “A great storyteller will always be rooted in the people” (Benjamin 101). By standardizing and putting the lyrics of songs to a metered verse, cleansing them of their many regional dialects, localisms and expressive modes, Lonnrot, in a greater sense, inadvertently reveals the cultural impossibility of the Kalevala:the impossibility that such a single text, encapsulating such bleached heterogeneity, can accurately ••• 38

represent the essence of an entire people. I would go so far as to conclude that his epic is rooted in a fallacious, artificial reading of Finnish folklore in the following sense: His epic may be rooted in the people but does not represent the Volk. Is he a bad storyteller? In the decades following the publication of the Kalevala, the Finnish language naturally popularized. The “plant,” as Gellner refers to it, required for nationalism “is [a] national educational and communications system” (Gellner 51-52). This plant flowered in Finland due in part to the increase of the literate population, the innovation of newspapers, the proliferation of printing-presses and a generally greater dissemination of publications. “Finnish-speakers were participating in civil society more,” research shows, “and were no longer willing to do so through another language” (Batterbee 89). Wilson provides that in the year 1865, Finnish gained official recognition in the Russian duchy alongside Swedish (Wilson 45). He also maintains that by 1885, the publishing of folklore journalism had reached its apex (48). During the same century, the first Finnish-language history of Finland appeared (Suomenhistoria), the first Finnish-language high school was established; and by the tum-of-the-century, “Finnish-speaking secondary students outnumbered those who spoke Swedish” (45). “The social organization of agrarian society,” Gellner goes on to contend, “... is not at all favourable to the nationalist principle, to the convergence of political and cultural units, and to the homogeneity [...] of culture...” (Gellner 39). Yet Finnish agrarian society was the ensign of its very nationalist politics. It is reported, “scores of articles and editorials published during [1910-15] repeated points stressed in earlier years—that the Kalevala reflected the undefiled national soul” (Wilson 59). As previously indicated, this common conviction is spurious. Those who believed that Ldnnrot had thoroughly reincarnated a previous epic are trapped in illusion. It is as if Gellner is writing of this illusion when positing the deception, as I view it, of

nationalism: “Nationalism is not what it seems... The cultures it claims to defend and revive are often its own inventions, or are modified out of all recognition” (Gellner 56). The new “high culture” of Finland, inspired by but distanced from genuine folklore written in the Kalevala would be imposed upon the traditional “low culture” of the bucolic laymen. Wilson reveals that the two protagonists of the Kalevala, Vainamoinen and llmaren, two ancient Finnish figures, long viewed in traditional permanence of pre-modem Finland as mythical characters, are championed by Ldnnrot as real, historical figures who once “performed brave deeds for the fatherland” (Wilson 11). Lonnrot’s foxlike logic makes sense for our interpretation: Fictitious characters can negate origin, but never when seen as real men. This artificial, spurious usurpation of Finnish folklore, as 1 mentioned, only distances the traditional members of Finnish society from the modem, educated youth brought up to believe that the epic was a reflection of pure Finnish character. Even if the epic contains the essence of what it means to be Finnish, which is not a tenet of this paper; a nation’s essence does not necessarily predilect its existence. The more popular and distributed the Kalevala becomes, the more the text undergirds a mode to disseminate information to Finnish people—vital information for nationalist intentions— information which effaces all traces of individuality and represses genuine cultural subjectivity. The Kalevala thus is a symbol, a simulacra—an appearance far-removed from its reality—that is ultimately objectified by a new Finnish “high culture.” Wilson argues that scores of Finns “would often not study the Kalevala itself... [It was] something to be proud of simply because it was there” (49), an object for nationalist utility—a space of national identification and national recognition. And as we learn from the lessons of the annals of the modem period, the dialectics of recognition almost always guarantee the destruction of original cultural heritage. Though my reading of Finnish history and Lonnrot’s Kalevala may gird nihilism; there are, however, no certainties. ••• 40

There is no direct determinism in the history of modernity. What is remarkable about biopolitics, the specialization of nationalist politicians and advocates in Finland, as in elsewhere, is the mixture of history with space, the notion that a certain nation needs to occupy a certain sphere of influence. This Enlightened idea provides one of the great ironies of the Kalevala: Most poems Ldnnrot collects for the nationalist cause are sourced not from within Finland, but from outside the borders of the modem Finnish state (i.e. in Russian Karelia), as if to say Lonnrot was under the exigency to approach the “spirit” of his country as though a viewer approaches a painting—as though Foucault, as spectator, would approach Las meninas. An a priori condition to imagine up and materialize the contours of Finnish cultural patrimony is Lonnrot’s need to leave the frame of Finland to collect—^to source—its origins. Origin is always out of the frame. Identity finds roosts in alterity, as we learn from Lacan.' And consequently, origin becomes an abstraction and largely devoid of accurate traces of personality. Veracious cultural experience is fundamentally opposed to the rationality capable of producing Lonnrot’s epic project and to the entire structure of the instrumentalized reason of the artificial politics of Finnish nationalism. And beyond statecraft, the Herderian utopian goal, facilitated by a cultural literary canon, is taken as a tool to create social systematization for the aspirations of modem, burgeoning capitalists wishing to make a standardized, national market (c.f. After Finland became an independent nation-state, national Insurance companies used proper nouns from the Kalevala to designated various insurance plans; the class of one type of life insurance was termed “Kalevala,” another, “Pohjola,” meaning Northland, a mythical land within Lonnrot’s epic (Battarbee 95)). The paradox of sovereignty previously underscored suggests that as soon as a social group attains cultural unity, it inevitably creates a group of exclusion. How would the Swedish­ speaking Finns, the Russian-speaking Finns, the traditional Finno-Karelians fit into the fabric of modem Finnish society?

••• 41

Gellner writes, changing one’s culture is very frequently a most painful experience.” Most cultures or potential national groups enter the age of nationalism without even the feeblest effort to benefit from it themselves... Yet most of them go meekly into their doom, to see their culture [...] slowly disappear, dissolving into the wider culture of some new national state (Gellner 47, 40). Many Karelians, either in the Russian Empire proper or in the Finnish proxy duchy did not associate with, or were ostracized by, the future Finnish state. These were a destabilized people who suffered during the rising tide of Finnish cultural dignity and importance, alienated and forced into social margins, despite forming the essence of what nationalists called true Finnish essence. Even German sociologist, Norbert Elias, in his seminal work. Power & Civility, remarks, “the civilizing of the human young is never a process entirely without pain; it always leaves scars” (Elias 244). Let us envision now modem Karelian culture. Karelians are fated to either become Russified (i.e. made part of Russian Karelia) or to be made modem Finns (i.e. made part of Finnish -Karelia). Let us imagine the substantial population of Swedish­ speaking Finns as well. In the wake of Finnish independence during 1917, “Swedish-speakers [...] feared that the Fennomanes would not be satisfied with equal public status for Finnish, but would press for the total replacement of Swedish” (Battarbee 89). This fear is the rotten fruit that was bom from the loss of the organic unity of tme heterogenous Finnish culture to a nationalist agenda of artificial unity. We cannot point a finger at any one assailant. Indeed, Elias Lonnrot is not to blame: “When [nationalist intellectuals],” writes Gellner, “donned folk costume and trekked over the hills, composing poems in forest clearings,” as Lonnrot collected the Kalevala, “they did not also dream of one day becoming powerful bureaucrats, ambassadors and ministers” (Gellnerbl). Lonnrot, likewise, eventually acquired a ministerial position at a Finnish university and was a proponent of his texts and of the

••• 42

entire field of Finnish folklore for the rest of his days. Although Ldnnrot did not, perhaps, realize the full implieations of a national cultural canon upon Finnish society, I do believe he understood the following: Literature always turns life into meaningful questions. His epic—the accumulation of social episodes, be them veracious or not—offer a feeling of cultural opening, an aperture through which we can explore and excavate the experience of the origins and history of the Finnish Volk, bringing them as close to such histories—such stories—as a modem nation can. To leave aporias, logical impasses throughout the composure of the Kalevala leaves room for something much more important than historical accuracy (which is an impossibility in itself, one could argue)—it leaves room for interpretation, dialogue and the exploration of national consciousness. 1 conclude with the following resounding words of Benjamin: Experience which is passed on from mouth to mouth is the source from which all storytellers have drawn. And among those who have written down the tales, it is the great ones whose written version differs least from the speech of the many nameless storytellers... (Benjamin 84).

Ldnnrot may fail us as stoiyteller, for his texts in truth lack verisimilitude; but he secures for us the abstraction of Finnishness. The concept of a nation-state is hinged on these modem abstractions. I reiterate: Uniformity is always artificially produced. Without Ldnnrot, without his Kalevala, the Finns would have stmggled much further for their passport—their ingress to the community of modem nation-states.

• • • 43

Works Cited Battarbee, Keith. "The Forest Writes Back: The Ausbau of Finnish from Peasant Vernacular to Modernity." Constructing Nations, Reconstructing Myth: Essays in Honour of T. A. Shippey. Ed. Andrew Wawn. Vol. IX. Turnhout: Brepols, 2007. 71-96. Print. Benjamin, Walter. "The Storyteller: Reflections on the Works of Nikolai Leskov." Illuminations. Trans. Harry Zohn. Ed. Hannah Arendt. New York: Schocken, 1968. 83-109. Print. Elias, Norbert. Power & Civility, The Civilizing Process. Trans. Edmund Jephcott. Vol. IL New York: Pantheon, 1982. 229-291. Print. Gellner, Ernest. Nations and Nationalism. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1983. 39-62. Print. Wilson, William. Folklore andNationalism in Modern Finland. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1976. Print.

Ode to the Onegin Stanza by Brianna Philpot

.-.toi...,,,. . =■- '

The task is clear, but I’m not clever: Of what to write, I cannot think. I was not made for such endeavors; My mind is bare; the page is blank. To Pushkin I send my petition: I ask, “Why such a hard tradition?” His stanza is not child’s play. But bit by bit I make my way, For I won’t leave my poem undone. Four lines remain and then I’m free; It’s felt like an eternity. And now the end has finally come! At first the form I wished to fight, - ' But in the end the verse delights.

v

45

,

'

: r

\ \

•••

."i,-

k:, : u-i'

5

ft'

The Reposition by Emily M Termotto

Becoming active, The Seeker feels the shallowness of this garden and the next. Crown pricks at fingertips with his head in my lap and hair the weight of a decade. The Seeker turns to me head upwards facing a sky only alluded to in memory. My face. Foundational folly and the only thing keeping the light out of his eyes.

-9

'

'

*

= .

“you’re not supposed to be here,” he says, ma raison d’etre cradled in baptismal confidence. No longer the Other and far from the Self, The Seeker moves little by little towards eyelash, individual.' “I can’t take you with me,” he whispers. Never intentioned to leave light-bathing and lonely in a static pool of togetherness. The Seeker reaches up.

From mouth to ear he breaks off sinful bits of myself that now in anarchy, flake into his hair as if drawn there and satisfied. The Seeker reposes in stillness.

••• 46

If I’m Being Honest by Erica Bigelow

know what to believe anymore and each day I care less and less.

I don’t think of you much anymore. You pop into my mind randomly, just like a book I consider re-reading or a movie I contemplate re­ watching, but never get around to. Apparently, Pisces are like that: we make a lot of to do lists, yet rarely complete them.

Sometimes we speak on the telephone, but each conversation is a consistent letdown. It’s like craving a malted milkshake, but getting served a Yoo-hoo instead; y’know, the drink that’s almost chocolate milk but is essentially just a mix of brown water and sugar in a glass bottle with no nutritional value? I do like Yoo-hoo, but I completely detest it when I’m craving something richer, something more fulfilling, something that is perhaps within my reach, but that 1 just don’t have.

I’m sitting here at my desk sipping Perrier and sucking on a TuttiFrutti hookah pen. You would make fun of me for it. You actually spent your money on four-dollar fizzy water and a plastic pen full of flavored CO2I

Maybe I just think you would make fun of me. I am realizing more and more that I truly don’t know you at all.

Talking to you is exactly like that. I always think that I’ll be getting the malted milkshake, yet somehow only ever end up with a sweaty bottle of Yoohoo.

You told me you would write to me. You also told me you would send me a birthday present. I am a Pisces and it is August. You said you bought me a book but 1 really, really, really don’t believe it. I never

I wrote a lot at this desk. 1 wrote about us sipping earl grey in the school cafe, my pink coat and your red sweater, freezing in the • • •

47

woods, kissing you, your voice saying my name, but the significance of all those words and phrases have faded away with the passing days. Now, they just feel like metaphors for a past life that I hardly remember.

Perhaps it’s because I never wrote about reality. I wasn’t strong then and I wasn’t brave. My instincts told me to run, but imagination overpowered instinct and I stayed in our handholding, sweater-wearing world for months. I didn’t write about the days I didn’t want to be kissed, my cowardice, the loneliness of loving someone who can never admit to loving you. I must have been too tired from chasing after someone who was permanently two steps ahead.

I used to wonder if we would end up together. I thought we were perfect. 1 failed to realize that discussing sex and New York City and Panic! At the Disco with a boy doesn’t make you soul mates. Whispering to someone on speakerphone until five A Mon Christmas Eve doesn’t mean that you’re made for each other; it just means you are both lonely. I blocked your number so that I won’t call you when I’m bored. I don’t need the disillusionment. I might see you again someday, but I don’t owe you anything. 1 feel so full on my own. And even if 1 thought I was running on empty, I have learned in the past four years of my life that I don’t need another person to fill the void.

We drank earl grey twice and I’ve written about it a hundred times. You wounded me in uncountable ways and I’ve written about them never.

I don’t blame you for anything, but I don’t thank you for anything either. I have never considered myself an incredible person, but hey, at least I wrote to you.

• • •

48

The Author by Carly Bortman

He realized he was not good enough to be a great writer after enrolling in college. On the first day of class, he read a poem by Goethe, dropped his pen, and walked out. The poem was “Kiinstlers Abendlied” or, in English, “The Artist’s Evening Song.” He knew a little German, and long after the first class, he carried the printed poem in his wallet. Every so often, he would fold it in half and test himself, using it to bring himself back to life. To him, the poem felt fuller and richer than reality, as if Goethe himself were guiding him through his own creation. Despite quitting, he read a lot. He read the people considered to be great, as well as those considered decent, or even just okay. Eventually, he had read enough books to get a job as an editor. Now, there was discipline to his reading: he read for another person, a writer who depended on him for his livelihood, for a career, for that whisper of greatness that brews in every aspiring writer’s coffee machine in the morning.

He himself had long given up on the smell of coffee. He merely read, a company man who had never dared get his hands dirty, six days a week, in an office on Fifth Avenue. He read deep into the night, a lamp on the desk, while thoughts and raindrops mingled on the roof.

One night he was reading a novel on hunting. He was careful not to assume that his newest client — a young and robust writer from upstate — was going through a phase of overt transcendentalism. He did not want to assume the writer was a reader of Hemingway, nor of Emerson, or Thoreau; he tried to see him as merely the hand that wrote the story of a deer hunter. Nothing else, nothing more.

• • •

49

It was late when he left, the story of the deer hunter stuffed in his briefcase, the rainy city waiting for him. He sighed, deciding the deer hunter was forced after all — feigned, really, like an umbrella in a hurricane. It was merely the story of one man’s relentless search for a worthy hunting partner. Nothing else, nothing more. Fifth Avenue and 63rd street was quiet at this hour. The only other sign of life was the outline of a man in the distance. The man was about five blocks away, walking towards him. He could just barely make out a bulky coat and top hat. He was tall, at least six feet. He could not discern any distinct facial features. The man moved like a mirage. The cold began to pull at him now, stronger than before. His thoughts were slipping into the street puddles, the deer hunter washing dreamily down the sewer drains. He was close to the subway, but not quite close enough to avoid contact with this man, this outline. He realized it was that peculiar time of night .when all of the restaurants have closed and everyone has just settled into the bars, soaking up the air-conditioning, putting a cocktail between themselves and the weather. Only this man and himself had ventured into the summer storm.

Maybe this is the real death drive, he thought, or death itself. He felt as if the man in the rain were looking through him, past him, beneath him, and his skin, and his sweat. They stopped.

“Hello.” “Hello.” It wasn’t longing he felt, exactly, but a rather exquisite and unprecedented curiosity. He looked closer, now, and saw the stranger carrying a small leather notebook and a pen. “Are you a writer?” the editor asked.

••• 50

The stranger nodded. He had a briefcase like the editor’s, and he opened it despite the rain. He angled the briefcase beneath the cover of the two umbrellas, then pulled out a manuscript, handing it to the editor. The editor took the manuscript from the stranger and thumbed through it, cradling his umbrella in the crook of his elbow. The manuscript was thick, bound, protected by a matte black cover. He read the first page and immediately recognized the voice of the deer hunter. This version of the hunt was better. “1 wanted someone to see the source,” the stranger said. The editor nodded, for this made sense to him. The author stood before him, holding his work, and yet both men understood he was a trespasser of sorts, even a spy.

The rain was falling hard. The editor nodded at the author, gently plucked the manuscript from his hands, and entered the subway. He ripped it neatly out of the black binding before throwing it on the tracks. There was still the lesser copy in his briefcase, waiting, Goethe in his wallet.

He suddenly found himself relieved to be living a life of mediocrity. The papers flew, songbirds underground, as the train sped past. Death was surely softer this way.

■ >•' 11 ■

• • •

51

' 'tj i'

• K.

The Syrian Refugee Crisis: Territoriality and Human Rights by Anastasia Damaskou

{image A} Iker Pastor captured this image on March 6 2016 in the Idomeni camp located in Northern Greece, at the borders with the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia (FYROM). The baby in the picture is called Bayan and was bom on the Greek island of Samos while his family was fleeing the Syrian war. Like others, their hope was to follow the Balkan route through Greece towards Western Europe in search of a better life. However, as the crisis became worse, several countries in Europe, including FYROM, closed their borders, creating a “bottleneck”' situation in this informal camp. Since the camp is located in a no-man’s-land that no one wants to take responsibility for, between two sovereign states, its spatiality acquires an exclusionary identity. Bayan’s position as an outlaw becomes evident in his journey traversing a sovereign space where he is not welcomed towards this grey area where he will join other outlaws. Giorgio Agamben analyzes this process of exclusion by distinguishing between zoe which is the “simple fact of living common to all living beings” and bios, “the form or way of living proper to an individual or a group.”" In order for the political order to be created, men need to abandon their zoe for bios, which is the end of the polis: “an inclusive exclusion (an exception) of zoe in the polis, almost as if politics were the place in which life had to transform itself into good life.” Thus, in the exclusion of those who only posses bare life (homo sacer), the people of the po/z.s'(Europeans) can form an identity by defining themselves against the exclusion. In our modem societies, papers determine who is included in the state • • • 52

order. Through excluding refugees European nations can assert their supposed hierarchy over others. The exclusion implies that someone was left outside so as to reassert European dominance and distinction. The refugees wanting to become part of this order is what gives the Europeans even more power since in this exclusion their dominance is confirmed. They have the dominance to determine where the refugees live and how they live. Thus, camps and their “citizens” reassert the other nation’s exclusivity. It seems like territory plays a major role in the granting of belonging. In order for one to belong, one must possess significance in society; his life must matter to those surrounding him. Territory provides grounding for this process to occur. Bayan and his family however, are forced to occupy this grey area where basic human rights are not guaranteed: “The fundamental deprivation of human rights is manifested first and above all in the deprivation of a space in the world which makes opinions significant and actions effective.”''' The picture shows Bayan’s mother and father holding him above the muddy ground, washing him using a plastic water bottle. The absence of proper infrastructure is evident from the use of a water bottle as a shower, to the possibility that a whole family occupies this feeble tent. Thus, it is evident that basic human rights like shelter, health and dignity are not guaranteed. Without territory, Bayan is reduced to a status whereby the absence of it defines him. He possesses what Hannah Arendt would call “the abstract nakedness of being nothing but human.”'' Bayan’s nationality is not linked to a state since he was bom in an in-between status fleeing a war in Syria whereby his birth would grant him citizenship, towards a continent where his birth does not guarantee belonging. He can claim nationality through his parents but not the citizenship that is automatically attached to it had he been bom in Syria. Thus, he is not connected to a state that will guarantee him rights through citizenship: “the law of a country could not be responsible for persons insisting on a different nationality.” ••• 53

By settling in this camp, Bayan’s temporary exception begins to acquire permanency. Politics becomes biopolitics because homo sacer begins to become the norm. In the camp, Bayan has no identity other than his humanity, which is no guarantee for human rights: “the world found nothing sacred in the abstract nakedness of being human.’”'' Human rights appear to only be applicable to those that can claim them through possession of a citizenship. Bare humanity, with no territorial grounding or ability to claim citizenship moves the person possessing it towards becoming “the scum of the earth.”''" As a newborn refugee, Bayan’s only hope of becoming an officially recognized citizen is to be granted asylum. Until then, he is a “citizen” of a camp that no one wants to take responsibility for. The picture appeared in major news sites such as the Greek and American editions of the Huffington post, the Greek edition of CNN and the Independent. It was accompanied by headlines using the word “newborn” implying that Bayan was bom inside the camp. This way of presentation indicates Western inability to think about a “fluid birth” that is not attached to territory, even if that territory is a camp. As established by Agamben, the state of exception includes Bayan by excluding him; since Idomeni is between Greece and FYROM, Bayan is the exception for both these orders. Since power is “a productive force that permeates and exceeds the state and operates to shape subjects”''"' the attribution of his birth in the camp operates as a productive force that shapes him as the Agambian exception. These productive forces are reproduced by state representatives who echo the stance adopted during the Second World War of viewing refugees as “the scum of the Earth.” The President of FYROM Gjorge Ivanov attempts to assert his country’s inclusion into the EU by excluding the refugees; “we’re not an EU country, not Schengen, not [a member of] NATO. Nobody wants us. Yet we protect Europe.”" Yet, he clearly states the failure of European nations to address the crisis but twists the argument as an excuse for more blind hatred: “If we had to rely on Brussels, which has failed to act, we would

••• 54

have long ago been flooded with Jihadists/’^n this sentence he juxtaposes “Brussels”, a predominant European symbol, against “Jihadists”, a word with polemic connotations in the West. Thus, in this way he justifies his actions of closing the borders by implying that refugees are part of the militancy between the “East” and the “West.” The choice of the word “flooded” can also be traced back to the way the refugees entered Europe, while it also indicates the threat that the refugee poses to his internal order. This can be parallelized to Schmitt’s argument regarding nomos, which arises after a “land appropriation” which is threatened by “pirates.””' Even if today borders exist in the sea, the pirate is “ostracized and expelled, stripped of his rights and made an outlaw.” Having illegally crossed the sea as a refugee, Bayan is immediately stripped of any identity apart from what this type of rhetoric allows. Ultimately, Bayan’s situation raises important considerations such as the implications of children forming their identities and reaching adulthood under these circumstances. Perhaps one of the biggest problems of linking nationality to citizenship is this idea that certain benefits are for certain people while others are deemed superfluous. A cycle of violence could thus arise, as a product of this inhumane treatment. Shifting the blame and constructing identities that promote fear might be easier than taking responsibility for these stateless people collectively. In “Vita Activa; The Spirit of Hannah Arendf’ Hannah Arendt responded to the phrase “I am ashamed for being German” with “I am ashamed for being human.””" When catastrophes such as the one Bayan is facing are viewed as far away or as someone else’s responsibility, then we only enter a cycle whereby history is bound to repeat, much like it is repeating right now in the face of the Syrian refugees. Realizing that our shared humanity should be something above any nation and any state is in my opinion of immense importance. When a person is deemed stateless in one state, he should be able to claim his rights as a member of humanity, not as a member of a specific state. ••• 55

(image A) Pastor, Iker.... YLa Vida Continua En Uldomeni. Digital image. Iker Pastor (@munduhurbila). N.p., 6 Mar. 2016. Web. 28 Apr. 2016.

<https://twitter.com/munduhurbila>.

’Filippou, Fotis. "Greece: Thousands of Refugees and Asylum-seekers Stranded at the Mercy of European Leaders." Amnesty International. N.p., 11 Mar. 2016. Web. 28 Apr. 2016. <https://www.amnesty.org/en/latest/news/2016/03/greece-thousands-ofrefugees-and-asylum-seekers-stranded-at-the-mercy-of-european-leaders/>. "Agamben, Giorgio. Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life. Stanford, CA: Stanford UP, 1998. Print, 1. Agamben, 7 ’’'Arendt, Hannah. Imperialism: The Decline ofNation State and the End of Rights of Man. Cleveland: World House, 1961. Print, 296. ''Arendt, 300 ” Arendt, 299 ’'"Arendt, 269 ''"'Kuehls, Thom. Beyond Sovereign Territory: The Space oj Ecopolitics. Exploring the Space of (inter)state Governmentality. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota, 1996. Print, 74. ’’“Yeung, Peter. "Refugee Mother Forced to Wash Newborn Baby in Puddle as Conditions at Greece's Idomeni Camp Deteriorate." The Independent. Independent Digital News and Media, 13 Mar. 2016. Web. 09 May 2016. <http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/refugee-mother-newbombaby-pudd!e-greece-idomeni-camp-a6928606.html>. ’“Yeung ’“'Schmitt, Carl. The Nomos of the Earth in the International Law ofthe Jus Publicum Europaeum. Trans. G. L. Ulmen. New York: Telos, 2003. Print, 44 xii Vita Activa: The Spirit ofHannah Arendt. Dir. Ada Ushpiz. Film Forum, 2016. Film.

• • •

56

Neither Here Nor There by Marianne Lim

“Eh, you Singaporean meh?” “Yes,” I answered, rather perplexed, “Bom and grew up here. Why?” “It’s just that you speak with an accent like an Ang moh, and you don’t look very Chinese,” my fellow Singaporean quipped.

I was initially taken aback, but realised she had a point. I grew up speaking English, while my mother tongue is Mandarin. I graduated from Anglo-Chinese School (Independent), and its name is very telling about my language ability. English is my first language. However, it was a running joke between students and alumni alike that the dash between the words ‘Anglo’ and ‘Chinese’ was actually a minus sign - my Mandarin was just so awful that 1 was better off not speaking it at all. “Well, when you go overseas, you’ll definitely fit right in la!”

Smiling at that memory, I switch my mind to focus back on the present—the Cultural Foundations Class that 1 had mentally left so long ago. My classmate shares how she is so intrigued by the wonders of the ancient Egyptians, and as fascinating as the pyramids and mummies are, I cannot help but be drawn to the way she hisses her ‘s’es and drawls her ‘a’s in the process. Everybody in this school and on the street seems to do this, but then again, what did I expect coming to an American institution in London? I leave the classroom again, and this time I wonder how many times I have to consciously speak slowly and emphasize my consonants just to be understood in these past few weeks.

If my manner of speech is a slight inconvenience, the subjects of conversation are a whole other problem. Often it feels like I am in the middle of a basketball game—lost, confused and unable to follow the action, let alone catch the ball—while my classmates ••• 57

pass it effortlessly to each other with lightning speed. The concepts of Chipotle, Thanksgiving and Pumpkin Spice Lattes are completely foreign to me. When people learn that I am from Singapore, they immediately assume it is an authoritarian country without freedom of speech based solely on the fact that we ban chewing gum (it keeps our streets clean). I want so badly to explain that we are so much more than the antonym of Western liberal ideals, that we had to work hard to achieve such religious and racial harmony and that we are governed with outstanding effectiveness and efficiency. I long to tell them about the mosque, church and Hindu temple all on the same street. I need them to hear about the English that we made as our own-yes, I wanted to tell them about Singlish, the common colourful language understood and spoken by people of different tongues. Yet back home 1 was not deemed “Singaporean enough”. Even so, the thought of fitting in anywhere was laughable; 1 knew I was always more inclined to Western culture than the average Singaporean, but there was no way I could blend in here.

If 1 had to position myself on a compass, I would be right smack in the middle between the East and the West, but nonetheless (and rather ironically), still lost and directionless. I was considered too Western to fit in back home, but too Eastern to belong here. Where is my place? Where do 1 belong? It felt like I was in limbo, floating in a void alone. That is, until I met Salman Rushdie one afternoon during my writing class. He lamented to me about his childhood home nostalgically preserved in the form in an old black and white photograph looking like nothing he remembered in reality - the tiles were too red and the cactus-leaves were too yellow. “I realised how much I wanted to restore the past to myself,” he sighed through the pages. He sounded too much like The Great Gatsby himself. I didn’t want to meet my own tragic end in the midst of this impossible pursuit. I knew I couldn’t linger with them; they didn’t offer any answers. • • • 58

Instead, I find solace under the warm glow of street lamps, towered over by century-old brick buildings and stamping on crisp oak leaves lying on the sidewalks. Breaking into a smile, I realise this is the first fall I’ve experienced.

It is not the magnificence of St Paul’s Cathedral or the stateliness of Buckingham Palace that remind me that I am in London. It is the ocherous colour of the leaves, the entitled boldness of the streetside pigeons and the nuances of the English language that remind me I have been blessed enough to study in one of the greatest cities in the world.

This is not an essay where I tell you that I have fallen deeply in love with London and proudly declare that “London Is My Home”. Truth be told, my heart is in two places. London is a new, exciting and mysterious lover who holds all the promises of the world: I see her beauty in the smallest things and her secrecy in the night; but Singapore will always be the same open and steady arms I can run to no matter how long we have been apart. 1 will always be able to trace her winding veins through the city, straight to her beating heart that I know so well; perhaps it is all I have ever known. I have fallen for both, yet I belong to none. Perhaps there is beauty in confusion and uncertainty. Perhaps one day 1 will belong somewhere. Perhaps I will roam from city to city as a nomad, marveling at their wonders but never for long enough to stay and belong. I will follow the road with no destination in mind, basking in the filtered sunlit glory of uncertainty. For with change springs possibility, and at the end of the road I can only hope to become something greater than myself. I am still figuring it out.

Raw, brutal and undisguised by Rhea Poddar Words are like the winds that blow on the rivers, Creating ripples but never truly touching the depths of the waters. These man-made intangibilities are unaware of the language of human desire. They only think they know the complexities that govern our beings. Language is but a creation something to bring order to chaos. Then, can the chaos truly be conveyed in the guise of order? The ordered mirror is shattered; the reflections are many and varied. But they are perspectives; chaotic order. The purity of chaos is lost. Chaos doesn’t survive the attempt at becoming organized. It stays inside and lives off the hope That someone or something, someday. Will penetrate that order And fall in love with the chaos underneath.

There is no language for this penetration It’s merely the ineffabilityof a powerful connection Something that runs in the rivers. Climbs the mountains. Flies high up in the skies. It’s the preordained chaos that attracts innate chaos raw, brutal and undisguised.

I wonder where we are You were an angel in my phantasma You rendered me weightless With a simple touch And I was in heaven The world, cloaked and sadistic Gave me no motivation to dream But you were Pandora’s hope And I was in heaven Life’s too short to toil over excuses you said You pushed me to dream You made me climb the ladder And then you left And I wonder where we are This bird doesn’t want to fly alone This bird looks at the skies like the realms of hell You anger me

And yet I long for you Is this where we are? Am I someone inhabiting the realistic world? My soul has transcended fictional boundaries In search for its counterpart But where is it? Where is my spirit? 1 am thinking through a body or a soul, 1 know not 1 know that this is what you’ve done to me And 1 continue to wonder where we are You, my angel, have become my phantasma

And this interim is transitory Because 1 will find you And 1 will find US We will look upon the mortal world together: That is where our utopian selves reside. In the interim, this dystopia will soon be conquered And soon there will be no phantasmas Just you, me and our dreams

by Falon Papale

La Coscienza Chi sei, vocetta efFimera?

Quando io sono troppo buona, mi dici di essere cattiva. Quando io sono troppo cattiva, mi dici di essere buona. Non sarai contenta mai con chi sono.

La tua esistenza si base sul cambiamento.

“Conscience” Who are you. ephemeral voice?

When 1 am too good, you tell me to be bad. When I am too bad, you tell me to be good. You will never he happy with who I am.

Your existence is founded on change.

• • •

62

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 Alyson Lounsbury, Andrea Gadberry, Avital

Ronell, 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 thank you 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, majoring in Comparative Literature and Italian.

Chabelly Pacheco, Senior Editor, is a Senior GLS and Latin American Studies major. She has studied in Florence, Buenos Aires, and is

currently in NY. Falon Papale, Senior Translational Editor, is a double major in GLS and Italian Studies with a Minor in Creative Writing. She is fluent in Italian and aspires to work in literary translation.

Jonathan Epstein, Senior Editor, is a Senior at NYU’s College of Arts

and Sciences studying Comparative Literature, Philosophy, and European Languages.

Cover design by, Andrea Long Chu , a PhD student in the Department of Comparative Literature at NYU, studying phenomenology, trans/feminist/queer theory, affect theory, and black studies.

For information on submissions and editorial positions, visit the NYU Comparative Literature department website at http://complit.as.nvu.edu/obiect/complit.ug.brio.

••• 63

&I12oi6.