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Brio 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 drama, the visual arts, and modem media suggest crucial comparisons. This journal aspires to emboc^ these ideas. A special thank you to Ms. Susan Protheroe for her support and encouragement; we couldn’t have done it without you! Grazie! Professor Lezra, thank you for your support and for lending your knowledge to the Professors’ Picks! iSe lo agradecemos!

The creation ofBrio is made possible by New York University’s Department of Comparative Literature Merci a tous!

TABLE OF CONTENTS Cover

Paul Anagnostopoulos The BehtadingofSaint Beefcake, Visual art

Inside Cover

Isabelle Klinghoffer A Pollutant’s Dream, Visual art

Jesse Wheaton Peeking, Visual art

5 6

Eric Silver Epistle, Poem

David Gustafson Flight ofthe Lion’s Mane, Poem

Sarah Andrew Synchronicity, Short story

Tai Kirk {unapoesia senza titolo], Italian poem

Federico Kiefernuss Generalized Instructions on General Relativity, Poem

Laura Valenza The Pleasure and Pain ofa Passerby, Critical essay

Philip Vachon Life on a Submarine, Short story

/BREE-OH/, NOUN VIVACITY; LIVELINESS: SPIRIT.

An individual Energy. SPRING 2013

Yonca Talu Lixpiriment, French poem

19 26

Nadia Hoppe The Child as a Symbol of Utopia in Andrei Platonov’s 3Q\i\and'Tht Foundation Pit, Critical essay

Daniel Succo natus. Poem

Jesse Wheaton Looking Uptown, Visual art

27 27 28

Philip Vachon Nocturne, Poem

Jesse Wheaton Constellation, Visual art

Faustina Lim (Not) A Love Story, Short story

Kate Weigel Hole No. 2, Visual art

T Nicholas Rzepski Two Places, Two People, One Khythm, Short story

Megan Laubershimer Being, Prose poem

Granger Lostaunau Botella de Agua, Spanish poem

Nadrah Mohammed a coming toform. Poem

Paul Kollmer Der Strich als ein Medium der Leidenschaft: Gewalttdtige Grammatik in Goethes Briefen und Die Leiden des jungen Werther, German critical essay

Granger Lostaunau f-Train, Poem

Sarah Andrew Dizzy daisy a little lady. Poem

April DeLancey Te Regalo, Spanish poem

Yonca Talu Shredded Souvenir, Poem

47 48

David Gustafson Blur, Short story

Granger Lostaunau Neoyorquino, Multilingual poem

52 53 54

Ben Miller Tijuatia, Short story

David Gustafson To Love a Pillow, Poem

Claire Pienaar

Roma, Italian poem

Yonca Talu Gueule de Couard(e), French poem

Padmini Parthasarathy Portrait of lacobus, Poem

Epistle

After aracelis Girmay Eric Silver Consider the hands that write this letter. The right hand unsteady, a child’s dipped toe into the great Lake Erie. The possible language sprawls for miles in all directions .

and the right hand has never been sure of the first shoulder twitch, which becomes a stroke which becomes swimming, or, plainly, writing this letter.

The right hand has languished in affected swagger. “This? I write this all the time. My girlfriend / grandma / mother who lives in the South now / high-school friends I celebrity mentor / anonymous strangers get the work of this all the time. Thank you so much for noticing.” The right hand considers the pen, its weight, its familiar shape, long enough to convince everyone else it knows exactly what its doing.

while the left hand grips the flat surface, steadied for the unmasking, the fallout, the you’re-not'a-writei-atrall. The left hand is the fall guy, the backup plan, the getaway car.

FLIGHT OF THE MANE David Gustafson I don’t look back at the one who shaved me o£F the stem, breath a blunt blade, it sends me off across the prairie haloed by the crimson fire of the august sunset, a plume of whims and wishes, we fly like spiders at birth in a cloud, splitting slowly apart, I skip on air currents, a bird among plants, a flighty idea, a fleeting—

My brother lays forgot on the ground like a line of dust— someone just died in the world.

But I carry longer, chased by eddies in a sea of humid whispers, tossing and turning— a chaotic churning, I land on the tongue of the one who breathed life into me, and I see him live like a fruit.

Synchronicity Sarah Andreis} Part I. The glass panes on the back room’s door were motley colored: red, green, orange, violet and blue. The pane at eyelevel, his favorite, was red. The red tint painted the sea and sky as pools of heat, a beautiful hell. On cooler days like today, it gave a sense of vitality to the overcast. The bay was shifting slowly. The storm crept politely from across the bridge. The sky was thatched, mainly panes of grey One of the few rays from the lattice praised the rose garden adorning the molding fountain. The old man floated in the direction of the rose garden, leav ing the door ajar. Snap. Snap. Snap. The knife forcefully caressed the cutting board. A women’s voice, acidic but graceful, purred from the kitchen. “Where are you going, Theo dore? We are having a discussion.” She idled on the porch steps and watched him. The air tasted salty, bitter; a draft washed the heat from Marianne’s spine as she shut away the chill. She emptied the last of the bourbon on to ice then picked up the knife. Theodore wrung his hands. He was bleeding at the knuckles, a compulsive cleansing habit, one of his new fixations. He pulled out a cigar. Lit it and studied the paper as it shriveled away into vapor as it mixed with the squalled atmo sphere. He sucked in the storm and the smoke together as he approached the boathouse. The boathouse. He loved nothing more in this world, except Mother. Theodore trailed inside the cacophonous haven, a labyrinth of: rope, seashells, paddles, soiled canvases/notebooks, fishing rods, and tackle boxes. He grabbed a dry ale from his collection of beers. He had formed his collection from the 34 countries he had visited in this life. There were two left. The ale cascaded down to the empty pond of his stomach, seeming to slow down as it caressed his ribs. This was the perfect ale. He was sure. Taste had lost its pleasure awhile back. But the nectar lingering in the cavern of Theodore’s throat brought him a sense of utter purity Norwegian brown ale, bought in 1943, the year before his first child with Marianne, a year after his mother’s death. Theodore circled around the dockside where he stepped into his motorboat. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. The tin roof began its melodic percussion. He took the keys hanging from the mirror and gave it a try. It hissed with each attempt but gave into its age. The white cushions had a layer of dust that now lined his newly ironed slacks. The mist dampened his lips. A wave of heat soaked through his tranquilized skin. The backs of his knees began to sweat. Snap. Snap. Snap. The stillness of the house rang louder than the absence of noise. The garlic had been minced. She paused. Marianne rapped her nails along the granite countertop and began to quietly hum, no particular tune, no particu

lar note. She finished her drink and picked up the phone. Theodore returned to the boathouse and fumbled around his memorabilia until finding his notebook. With his other hand he grabbed the last two beers, a German porter and a Russian smoked beer. The water level had risen and waves began to tease the dry surface of the covered dock. Theodore moved into the slightly flooded motorboat. He dated the top of the next empty page. October 23rd 1978. “My dear Marianne, my sweetest Cecelia and Anna-” Marianne presses her forehead against the chill of the kitchen window, fol lowing the beads of water falling down the glass pane. Her throat tightened as she spoke into the phone. “I can’t continue this.” Marianne’s voice seemed to emanate from a source outside of her self. “Of course we will—” The back door opened. Marianne’s spine slunk feebly from the chill of the storm. She discarded her empty glass. She breathed quickly into the phone. “We will speak later.” Theodore moved to the fireplace in the backroom. The 6 o’clock sun had dissipated in the storm, leaving the room’s illumination to the glow from the adjoining kitchen. He retrieved a cigar from the case on the fireplace mantle. He lit his cigar and then he lit the fireplace. Theodore opened his notebook and pressed his pen down coarsely. The towering walls flickered with slow, sprightly laughs. Glow. Light. Fade. Black. The paintings, photographs, and books became animate in the firelight, tangible ghosts of history. “You will have an appetite tonight. I’m sauteing Swordfish with Brandy and baking Milcrepe for desert.” The fire snapped languidly. Screech. Screech. Theodore’s pen. The Grandfather clock. Tick, tick, tick. Accompanied by the melody of snapping, ticking, and screeching, a mute wailing steadied itself within Marianne’s head. “I expect an appetite from you, Theodore.” Marianne’s voice pressed against the walls with an overwhelming delicacy Marianne hesitated. She walked over with a half bottle of Brandy. “Here.” She poured two oceans of brandy, consum ing two thirds of hers immediately. Silence dried the air. The blood inside Mari anne cooked her rigid bones. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Screech. Screech. Screech. Theodore’s eyes fixated on the swirling ink. “Theodore. Dear. Whether life pleases you or not, you have a responsibility to it, as you do to your children, as you do to me.” Marianne stares into her glass. The luminosity begins to shift rapidly Theo dore attaches his eyes to the fire. Mother’s face. Flick. Young Marianne. Flick. Anna laughing. Flick. Cecelia on the dock. Mother drinking. Flick. Anna twirl ing. Flick. Marianne in bed. Flick. Mother sobbing. Flick. Anna laughing. Cecelia singing. Flick. Cecelia weeping. Flick. Marianne drinking. Flick. Mother sleep ing. “Theodore?” Flick. Theodore and Marianne meet each other’s eyes. “Please say something.” The fire pulled back his gaze. The faces began to frown. Mari anne’s muscles tensed. Her pulse pounded in her throat. The voices from the fire began to speak to Theodore.

Synchronicity, cont. Sarah Andrew Mother, “Take me home.” Cecelia, “Will you be back soon?” Marianne, “Another kiss.” Anna, “Mama’s not going to like this.” Cecelia, “I’ll be lonely.” Mother, “I cannot sleep.” Cecelia, “I feel strange. Daddy.” Anna, “It’s your fault.” Marianne, ”I really hate you sometimes.” Marianne’s hands quiver. She takes another drink and finishes it. She refills. “I have been nothing but good to—” The fire releases Theodore’s attention to Marianne. “Don’t you dare look at me in that way” Marianne traces the rim of her glass." You will not blame me, Theodore. You think that you are the victim.’ The voices pull Theodore back. Cecelia, “Mama doesn’t love me.” Marianne, ‘Anna, my fine girl.” Cecelia, “I’m not yours.” Marianne, “I don’t know why I love you.” Anna, “You’re always working.” Mother, “I do not belong here.” Cecelia, “Mama’s a liar.” Marianne, “Theodore, I love you.” Anna, “"Vou need to rest?” “What’s wrong?” Mother, “Theodore, I made you unhappy” Anna, “You’ll feel better soon, you always do.” Marianne, “You make me sick.” Mother, “She’s unhappy.” Cecelia, “Daddy, please say something.” Mother, “They all are.” Marianne, “I don’t mean the things I say” Mother, “Don’t be a burden.” The voices fade. Theodore keeps his eyes on the fire. “I won’t do it,” Theo dore is indecipherable. Mother, “Don’t be a burden.” Cecelia, “Mama’s a liar.” Anna, “'You’ll feel better soon, you always do.” Mother, “She’s unhappy” Mother, “She’s unhappy.” Mother, “She’s unhappy.” Marianne’s quiet voice slowly unravels. “What are you saying? Theodore.

Theodore?” She grabs his face forcefully. Each word is a sharp incision. “Theo dore? Respond to me. Respond to me God damn it.” Marianne’s blood chews on her skin. She is sweating. The fire. The alcohol. The fire. The alcohol. Chewing. Chewing. Chewing. The heat overwhelms. Marianne grips Theodore’s jaw tightly. It is quiet. She cries without changing her stone expression. She whispers. “Damn you, Theodore. God fucking damn you. Pve lived in silence. I silently watch. I silently wait. I have loved you. I loved you for so long. And I’ve waited. I’ve waited. In silence I have waited.” She releases her grip. “Theodore. There is nothing left.”

Part 2.

“No...oh God...No. No. No. No. No. Jesus...No. Daddy. Why. Why Fucking why” Marianne’s favorite kitchen knife was missing from the counter.

[UNA POESIA SENZA TITOLO] Tai Kirk c’e una villa nel centra di firenze dove una vecchia si siede e guarda il fuoco bruciare

c’e un albero in una foresta verde che e morto I’inverno scorso ma continua a crescere c’e un Iago in cui abitano tanti pesci che sempre parlano ma non cantano mai c’e una barca e un gatto e loro sono amici e nuotano insieme c’e un bicchiere di vino che e annoiato perche non fa niente e vorrebbe essere I’acqua

e c’e un ragazzo da qualche parte e lui sogna di cose che non esistano

Generalized INSTRUCTIONS ON GENERAL RELATIVITY Federico Kiefernuss no one knows what’s happening the cosmological constant that balances the universe is supposed to be a source of comfort for everyone but here comes the monsignor

has no reverence for the constant that balances the universe on the verge of something terribly crucial it kept everyone sane until the monsignor’s coming with his “constant mass and expanding radius” on the verge of the terribly crucial divide between the continued bang or the sudden crunch his “constant mass and expanding radius” terrifies everyone with his elusive beast or the dark energy

in favor the continued bang (of course) over the sudden crunch the monsignor is also human not infallible to the elusive heast the dark energy that in due course will appear as ruptures in the continuum

the non-inhuman monsignor falls deprives us of the source of comfort prayed for ruptures start to appear in the consecrated continuum leaving you and me in the dark with the beast for company

The pleasure and the PAIN OE A PASSERBY Laura Valenza Charles Baudelaire flirts with death in his love poem to a passerby, “A une passante.” He blurs the lines between life and death through contrasting imagery in his attempt to capture a transient moment during which a woman emerges from the chaos of the street and lights the darkness of the night. Though he has immortalized the moment in his poem, he still must reconcile himself with the idea that the beautiful lady will never be more than a mysterious passerby. The passerby seems as though she simultaneously represents death and the chance for life as shown through the dual structure of the sonnet seen in word meaning and imagery “Passante” is a present participle turned into a noun, which literally translated means “passing.” In English, this is often a euphemism for dying. Thus the passerby’s actions and she herself both represent death because she is both ir the act of passing by and away and is herself the passing. The shift of the sonnet happens in the third stanza with a flash of lightning, “Un eclair...”' It is a moment of clarity within the chaos; the word “clear” or clair exists within lightning or eclair. The woman is the lightning, the “Fugitive beaute”, but after lightning, it is all darkness again: “puis la nuit!”' The short phrases broken up with punctuation resemble bursts of lightning and recall the loud bang of the first sentence of the poem: “La rue assourdissante autour de moi hurlait.”^ However, the roles are reversed in the first stanza: the street is loud (like lightning) but the woman is darkness (like the night) passing through the noise. The first line of the final stanza resembles the punctuation of the penultimate stanza also. The line is broken up into short flashes: “Ailleurs, bien loin d’ici! trop tardlyi^/w^fi peut-etre!”^ Baudelaire seems tangled in the short phrases, lost in the punctuation—he does not even tell us everything but writes “Un eclair...” and drifts away. Though this moment was only “fugitive,” he has been changed by it for I’eternite and will never, jamais, be the same. There are two forms of darkness in the poem: the darkness of the woman in mourning and the darkness of the eternal night that she lights up like a bolt of lightning. Baudelaire writes, “Dans son oeil, ciel livide ou germe I’ouragan.”* Though the first line of this stanza suggests that the woman is passing through the darkness, it seems as though the storm is within her; she encompasses both lightning and darkness. While the poem seems to be about something that is gone, lost forever, the line above suggests that something is also just beginning. “Oeil” means eye but another definition is “bud,” like the bud of 1. Baudelaire, Charles. “A une passante.” Web. 2012. In. 9 2. Ibid., In. I 3. Ibid., In. 13 4. Ibid., In. 7

a flower. He refers to plants again, “germe.” The speaker’s encounter with lapassante is perhaps not only ecstatic but sublime, according to Immanuel Kant’s definition. He sees nature within her—the budding, sprouting storm. The storm and the “ciel livide” are frightful images but there is no real danger for him and there is something pleasurable, beautiful about it, too. He writes, “La douceur qui fascine.”’ Though the poem has an aura of death, it perhaps represents how Baudelaire has been humbled by this chance encounter with something so much greater than he and reminded of his own mortality by seeing the beautiful ferocity of nature within the eye of the stranger. The duality of dark and light then shifts to ignorance and knowledge. Each line of the final couplet is divided in halves that mirror each other. I wondered why Baudelaire chose the verb “ignorer” and then used “savoir” when he could have made the two halves of the penultimate line mirror each other perfectly “Savoir” simply means “to know,” but “ignorer” could be associated with not acknowledging, ignoring or being ignorant of something, which does not seem as innocent as “ne sais.”'’ Similarly, the woman flees (“tu fuis”) but he goes (“je vais”).'’ “Fuir” implies that she is trying to get away from something whereas he is simply going somewhere. The “passante” is introduced as associated with death: “en grand deuil, douleur majestueuse.”’ Perhaps what the speaker is ignorant of is death—something mysterious and unknowable. “Tu fuis” may be a reference to “Fugitive beaute” because she and her beauty are fleeting like life itself: “Un eclair... puis la nuit!”’ Perhaps she represents death by demonstrating how short life is. Though the speaker is associated with ignorance, lapassante holds the knowledge— though what that knowledge is Baudelaire leaves a mystery. Baudelaire writes after confessing his love, “6 toi qui le savais!”’ But how does she know that he might have loved her if they have never interacted? Perhaps that is not even what “le” refers to. Is it where she goes? When they will or will not meet again? Death? Perhaps “le” is the answer to the question Baudelaire poses earlier, “Ne te verrai-je plus que dans I’eternite?”"' He must leave it a mystery because he does not know, only she knows. The question itself is problematic. In each of the translations accompanying the poem, it had different meanings. “Will I see you no more before eternity?” implies that “eternity” represents death." “Through endless time shall I not meet with you?” simply seems to ask if he will never see her again.’^ Finally, “Shall I see you again only in eternity?” suggests that he expects to see her but only after they have died.’’ All of the different meanings that this question could have $. Ibid., In. 8 6. Ibid., In. 13 7. Ibid., In. 2 8. Ibid., In. 13, 9 9. Ibid., In. 14 10. Ibid., In. 11 11. Baudelaire, Charles. “A une passante." Trans. William Aggeler. The Flowers ofEvil, Fresno,: Academy Library Guild, 1954. Web. 2012. 12. Baudelaire, Charles. “A une passante.” Trans. Roy Campbell. Poems of Baudelaire, New York: Pantheon Books, 1952. Web. 2012. 13. Baudelaire, Charles. “A une passante." Trans. Geoffrey Wagner. Selected Poems of Charles Baudelaire, NY: Grove Press, 1974. Web. 2012.

The Pleasure and the Pain oe a passerby, cont. Laura Valenza further emphasize the confusion and ignorance of the speaker and how he is at the mercy of time. In the final line, the verb forms also contrast each other and toy with the concept of time. “O toi que j’eusse aimee” is written in the past subjunctive whereas “6 toi qui le savais” is the imperfect tense.'"* The subjunctive implies that the phrase following que is a hope or wish, maybe even an expression of doubt. The imperfect tense is more definitive about something that was actually the case, which emphasizes that she knew something while the speaker can only have hope. Or perhaps he is even coming from a place of doubt—he “might have loved” her.'* The invocation of the conditional begs the question: under what conditions would he have loved her? Maybe if he had more time, maybe if he could have talked to her, maybe if he knew whatever she seems to know. He seems to regret that she is gone and he knows not where. Then again, she knows something about their experience according to the final line and perhaps that is all they need to share. He does seem to express doubt as well—he teeters on the edge of life and death, of knowledge and ignorance, of having and losing. Baudelaire writes, “Moi, je buvais, crispe comme un extravagant.”'^ “Crispe” translates to “tense” or “nervous” or “on the edge.” Lapassante is on the edge as well: “balangant le feston et I’ourlet.”'’ Though this simply means that she was “swinging the hem and flounces of her skirt” there are other implications for the individual words.'* “Balangant” can also mean “balancing” as though she too were between two things—though balance implies steadiness and the speaker does not seem to have a firm grasp on anything. Also, “I’ourlet” can translate to “rim” or “lip” as though the lady was on the edge as well. Baudelaire creates this connection between the two people in the poem, but, ultimately, the passerby seems to have something that the speaker cannot have. The contrasts seem to exist within the woman as well. She is “agile” yet she has the “jambe de statue.””’ Agility reflects how she is fleeing and her beauty is fleeting. Her transient existence may relate to being statuesque because statues are not living, and she and her beauty are not lasting. On the other hand, statues 14. Baudelaire, Charles. “A une passante.” Web. 2012. In. 14 15. Baudelaire, Charles. “A une passante.” Trans. Roy Campbell. PotmsofBaudtlairt, New York: Pantheon Books, 1952. Web. 2012. 16. Baudelaire, Charles. “A une passante.” Web. 2012. In. 6 17. Ibid., In. 4 18. Baudelaire, Charles. “A une passante.” Trans. William Aggeler. The Flowers ofEvil, Fresno,: Academy Library Guild, 1954. Web. 2012. 19. Baudelaire, Charles. “A une passante.” Web. 2012. In, 5

are created to immortalize. She is stone because Baudelaire recognizes her transience and that she can only be preserved in art or poetry or by a tombstone. She might be a statue like Bernini’s “The Transverberation of Teresa d’Avila” in that Teresa seemed limp and deathlike but was also in ecstasy. Lapassante is “en grand deuil” but “Dans son oeil, ciel livide ou germe I’ouragan,” which seems to describe a very dark ecstasy “ Indeed, the speaker finds himself looking at her lost in “le plaisir qui tue.”” In her eye is a “ciel livide ou germe I’ouragan” but she is sweet and kind (“La douceur”).” The duality is reflected again in the speaker whose pleasure at seeing this woman also gives him pain: “le plaisir qui tue.” Ecstasy is made of pleasure and pain and lasts for only a moment. Baudelaire writes that the pleasure kills, so has lapassante killed him.’ Seeing her may have given him life or it may have showed him the life that he has already missed. He might have loved her—so many maybes. So much unfulfilled, yet the poem is a means of reaching out if not directly to the woman than to the ideas that she represents in order to preserve the moment. The first half of the sonnet describes the woman while the second half addresses her directly Unfortunately, he only seems to find the voice to speak to her after she has passed (from life to death perhaps). The title of the poem reflects the two halves because it is “To a Passerby” as though it is a letter addressing her, but it is not “A la passante,” it is “A une passante” as though this is not directly to the woman in mourning. Perhaps “halves” is a better way to understand the sonnet than contrasts and duality; there are not separate entities but two components that make up a whole such as life and death (make up existence), beauty and fear (sublimity), pleasure and pain (ecstasy). 20. ibid., In. 2, 7 21. ibid.. In. 8 22. Ibid., In. 7, 8

Life on a Submarine Philip Vachon In line I’m fumbling with my ticket. My hands are knobs and angles now and they creak like my grandfather’s seemed to. Eleanor bypassed the line, replied to the stares with the number 90 she’s come to embrace. She’s in the bus now and the cane leaning against the bus door begins to fall out of the corner of my eye while the impatient driver shuffles his feet. It falls and he tries to grab it and returns it to its spot with a reluctance that comes with our son’s generation, and with our daughter’s. The cold breath hanging in the air shows me he’s told me something into my bad ear, and though he’ll never know my left hemisphere is forever dulled for his freedoms because I’ll never tell him, I feel he should know. On some level he should know it and respect it. Now he’s motioning into the bus with his hands in my questioning face, and I’m going for the cane as Eleanor takes it from my hands’ trajectory and gives it to me. The movie begins but I don’t care to watch. “Why don’t you watch the movie? It’s about life on a submarine! Or are you just going to sit and think about your brother? That is too sad.” “Don’t make fun of me.” I can’t bring out more than that. I’m tired. I’m tired and I have seen the flag at half-mast out the window and I don’t know what for. I should know goddamn it. And now it’s a cemetery with one flying over and I can’t believe I don’t know why that damn flag has lost altitude today. I rack my brain for the substance of the numbered box I crossed out this morning next to our bed but it escapes me. Things are always goddamn escaping me now. She’s right, though. It is too sad. But I will think of my brother if I please and I do. It’s funny; I’d said that childish phrase thousands of times to him. Summer buzz cuts had left my big ears and lumpy skull out in the sun and he’d let me have it. It was fair though; it was in good fun. That understanding came with growing up. And he was always the strong one. He was always so strong. Dad’s jaw never sat right on me the way it did him, but we both got Mom’s eyes. And now I’m weak. But I’d never thought he would be. In the moments of late night darkness I’d imagined him going with bullets and medals and a statue in our town. I don’t think anyone thinks they’ll die in a hospital bed. In that gown with his ass hanging out that I’d joked about. His laugh felt like a discharge of energy rather than a signal of it. Like rations to be dispensed. “Have you ever been on a submarine?” She puts her gloved hand on my elbow. “Yes.” “Really? What are they like? Are they crowded? I mean small?” “They’re full of very sophisticated technology. I was never stationed in one but I have toured them before.” “Interesting.” It’s queer how little we talk even though we’re together non-stop. Dianne from

across the street would say it’s bad we don’t but I think Eleanor knows what I know. Or at least we’ve got the gist. For every unknown submarine tour I have she’s got something deeper in her that used to be mine. That is ours now. That’s what it is. But I can still see the flags and I can still feel my brother. She’s got her own and I’ve got mine. And life on a submarine doesn’t interest me much.

L’EXPERIMENT Xonca Talu De I’epaule surgissait une douleur exquise, la douleur des saisons survolantes, munie de pretention; celle des gamins nus afFoles sur les etendues excrementees. La douleur traine lourd son gibier, vetue d’angoisse et perplexite. Sens dessus dessous, terrains envahis rendus : le panier mis a disposition eclate, en jaillit sa confiture; confiture doree, fusillee par I’irruption du si infuyable. Quelle etranglante mesaventure, epouvantable odeur qui se repand... “Vaudrait mieux s’eloigner ma poule.” Une poule, deux poules, j’ai la chair de poule. La douleur brandissait I’epee avec une telle agilite Que subissant un doublement du debit, I’elan penetrait. S’elargissait davantage la riviere, cervelle occupee : occupee par la sensualite nouvellement naissante de la camarade ; camaraderie ecoeurante, les fleches se pointent. Elies dechirent minutieusement la caverne. La douleur enfonce I’epingle, coule le sang. Je voudrais photographier cet instant; Instant extatique, reveil neant. A chaque generation, cycle de reproduction.

Eternuement blasphematoire. Le massacre est acheve. Autour du manege tourbillonnent les rejets de sueur. La douleur dame, proclame sa candeur. Sautillent les particules infames. Le jugement se presente. Attention, douleur portee a ebullition. Convocation de la jouissance, tyran extermine. Braille, beugle, attentat contre votre Majeste. Nulle correction anatomique. Organisme dissolu. Entends-tu asperge de la putrefaction. Ton indecence ne me petrifie point! Le gardien se noie. Il a egare le cadenas.

The Child as a Symbol OF UTOPIA IN ANDREI

Platonov’s ‘Soul’ and The Foundation Pit' Nadia Hoppe Children represented an easily malleable portion of society, perfect for the instillation of Soviet morals and values, making them vital to the Soviet project. This potential to easily interweave Soviet ideology into the education and upbringing of children gave youth an important position in Soviet society and the state was careful in taking advantage of this. Orphans, who Marina Balina calls “human tabula rasafs}”, were especially vital to the Soviet project because they had no family ties and often no knowledge of their heritage to divert them from following the Soviet government’s path to what the state considered a “glorious and happy future.”’ Compared to children with family influences, orphans were truly “Children of the State,” as Balina calls them, and possessed even more potential making them especially important to the Soviet experiment. Starting in the 1920s, propaganda advertised the Soviet Union to be the happiest place in the world for children. Soviet children were portrayed as blessed citizens and their lives were compared to the “exploited” life of child from the capitalist West or to the dire life of a child before the revolution in 1917. Yet, while the welfare of children was considered important, the needs of the state were considered the foremost concern. For example, while Young Pioneers did indulge in crafts, science, sports, and other leisure activities at state centers, the purpose of Soviet Youth organizations was also to ensure a proper ideological upbringing.” Moreover, the funding for children’s institutions indicated that the state’s interest gravitated towards political concerns rather than the welfare of children. The Soviet Union’s indoctrination and policy-making went as far as to use children to diminish the loyalty and value of blood ties between family members. As Judith Harwin says in her book Children ofthe Russian State: 1917-9^, “[Stalin] used all children as part of an ideological battle to enforce allegiance to the State above all other loyalties through a process of political indoctrination.”” According to Harwin, “Stalin deliberately manipulated the children’s natural bonds of loyalty to their parents by encouraging them to inform on their parents 1. Balina, Marina. “It’s Grand to be an Orphan!; Crafting Happy Citizens in Soviet Children’s Literature of the 19205.” Ed. Marina Balina and Evgeny Dobrenko. Petrified Utopia. London: Anthem Press, 2009. pg. 103 2. Ibid., pg. too

The Child as a Symbol of Utopia, cont. Nadia Hoppe if their activities ran counter to the goals of the regime.”’ Newspapers and sometimes even schoolteachers encouraged children to denounce their parents.* Both Andrei Platonov’s The Foundation Pit and Soul, feature an orphan child that personifies the goals of the Soviet experiment and resembles the role of actual children in the Soviet Union. Nastya, an orphan, becomes a representation of the future beneficiaries of the work of the men, motivating the men and giving purpose to a Soviet project that only future generations can enjoy. In Soul, Chagataev, an orphan who is also closely aligned with childhood, also represents a model of Soviet ideology by presenting characteristics similar to a hero of Socialist Realism. The story of The Foundation Pit follows a group of men who are digging a foundation pit for a superstructure that will serve the needs of hundreds of proletariat. Zhachev, a member of the building team, is sent to find a young girl, who is supposed to serve as encouragement for the men. According to Safronov, a leader among the building team, “It is essential, comrades, that we should possess here, in the form of childhood, the leadership of the future proletarian bright world...” ’ Luckily for the team of men, when Chiklin, another member of the building team, stumbles upon a dying woman and her child. As she is dying, the mother tells her daughter to turn off the light because, as she says, “I keep seeing you and living.”*’ The men’s desire to have a child in their presence and the mother’s request suggest that in the context of The Foundation Pit children are figures that provide strength and the will to live for those that surround them. Throughout the novel Nastya is a symbol of the future for the men and motivates them to continue their work. Yet, their newfound motivation comes to an abrupt end when Nastya, the symbol of the beneficiaries of their labor, dies. Nastya’s ideological importance as a symbol of the future becomes even more apparent after her death. Voshchev, one of the workers, thinks, “Where in the world was communism now going to be if it didn’t first begin in a child’s feeling and convinced impression? What need had he now of life’s meaning and the truth of the universal origin if there were not a small, loyal human being in whom truth would become joy and movement?”^ After Nastya’s death, Zhachev, another worker, loses hope in the future of communism, saying that, “Communism’s something for the children, that’s why I loved Nastya.”’ Without Nastya, the Ione symbol of the future recipients of the results of the men’s work, 3. Harwin, Judith. Children of (he Russian State: 1917-^^. Brookfield, VT: Ashgate Publishing Company, 1996. Print, pg. 16 4. Baldaex Danzig. Dmttmgfrom the Gulag. Ed. Damon Murray and Stephan SorreU. Trans. Iblly Gannon and Asl A Moore. London: FUEL, 2010. pg. 27 5. Platonov Andrei. TheRx/ndationPrt. Trans. Robert and Elizabeth Chandler and Olga Meerson. New Yxlc Ncw'Ybrk Review Bodes, 2009. Rint pg. 45 6. Ibid., pg. 49 7. Ibid., pg. 148 8. Ibid., pg. 149

the men are no longer building the base of a superstructure, but instead are digging an endless hole without any purpose. In Platonov’s Soul, the main character Chagataev is an orphan who identifies closely with the Soviet mission. Chagataev was abandoned by his mother at a young age and now, as an adult, he is returning to his “childhood country,” the nation in which he grew up and where his mother still resides, to bring communism to the nomadic Dzhan nation. “Dzhan. It means soul, or dear life. The nation possessed nothing except the soul and dear life given to it by its mothers...” says Chagatev, “[My mother] said they were runaways and orphans from everywhere, and old, exhausted slaves who had been cast out.” And as Chagataev discovers, the Dzhan nation is not only void of possessions, but they also surrounded by constant death and hunger. Chagataev, a member of the communist party, is given the duty to “build socialism” in the nation so that it can “live in paradise.”’ "Vet, he soon finds that the nation is more ready to die than it is to embrace communism. “Hurry up and give us death soon,” says one member of the nation, “before we forget how to live with it, while everyone is still merry!” The nation cannot feed itself, let alone learn to support an entirely new ideology. Instead, his first priority is to lead the nation to a sustainable life by embarking on a mission toward the mouth of “the flood lands.” As the story of Chagataev just begins to unfold it seems that he is on track to follow the model of a hero in Socialist Realism, the basic method of Soviet literature and literary criticism beginning in the early 1930s. According to Katerina Clark in her book Soviet Novel- History as Ritual the new hero of Socialist Realism is ideologically right-minded and characterized by, “‘struggle,’ ‘vigilance,’ heroic achievement, energy, and another cluster of qualities rather like the ‘true grit’ of the American frontier [such as] ‘stickability,’ ‘hard as flint,’ and ‘will.’”‘° As Clark says, “this new hero of the Party rhetoric and literature, then, was most remarkable, not for his political virtue or even for his economic achievements, but for his fantastic feats.”" Chagataev is a proud communist, who finds a home in the Soviet Union. According to Chagataev, after being abandoned by his mother, the Party was his salvation. He says, “he would not have been able to keep on living at all were it not for his sense of the kindness of the revolution that had saved him, in childhood, from abandonment and a hungry death and that now sustained him in self-respect and a sense of what it is to be a human being.”" Not only does Chagataev see the Soviet Union as a savior to his motherless childhood, but he also sees Stalin as a fatherlike figure. He refuses to abandon the Dzhan nation because, as he says, “he himself, after being abandoned by his mother in the desert, had been taken care of by a shepherd and by Soviet power—and an unknown man, Stalin, had fed him and preserved him for life 9. Piatonoy Andrei. Souiand Other Stories. Trans. Robert Chandler and Elizabeth Chandler. New York: New York Review, 2008. Print pg. 24 10. Clark, Katerina. The Soviet Novel: History as Ritual. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981. Print, pg. 73 11. /^/</,pg. 7? 12. Platonov, Andrei. Soul and Other Stories. Trans. Robert Chandler and Elizabeth Chandler. New York: New York Review, 2008. Print, pg. 131

The Child as a Symbol OF Utopia, cont. Nadia Hoppe and development.”’’ Vet, Stalin is not only father to Chagataev, but, according to Chagataev, he is also the father to many of the children in the Soviet Union.'*’ Chagataev, a product of the Soviet Union, endures struggle in order to reach the goal of building communism in a dying nation, giving him the qualities of a hero of Socialist Realism and proving his ideological correctness. Additionally, he is a character that is deeply connected to childhood. Not only does Chagataev consider himself a child of Stalin, but also the journey that he takes with the Dzhan nation closely resembles his life as a child. He also shows a particular closeness to the child characters in the book. He has a strong attachment, which he identifies as a “fatherly love” with Ksenya, the underage daughter of his wife, and Khanom, another underage girl who he meets while leading the Dzhan nation. Also, he has a strong connection to Aidym, the only small child of the nation, who eventually helps him to lead the nation. Perhaps Chagataev’s feels a deep connection to children and childhood because he desires this childhood bliss. Because he becomes an orphan at a young age, he never fully realizes the pleasure of childhood. Instead, as Chagataev describes it, he is cast out into the world alone, forced to find fatherlike comfort in a man that he might never meet (Stalin). For this reason, it seems that Chagataev never really grows out of his childhood, but instead lives in a realm somewhere in between childhood and adulthood. He is an adult, yet he still forms strong, passionate bonds with children and relives his own childhood experience. Chagataev’s admiration for the joy of childhood explains his attachment to the child characters in the novel. The closer he is to a child, the closer he is to experiencing the uninterrupted happiness Aidym feels, no matter what the circumstances. In The Foundation Pit and Soul, Nastya and Aidym exist in a world where they are not among other young girls like them. Nastya is discovered by a group of working men, while Aidym is one of the only surviving children in a nation of dying people. Because Nastya and Aidym are both females among groups of men, their femininity is emphasized. A young Andrei Platonov is quoted as saying, “Communist society is essentially a society of men...Humanity is courage (man), and not the embodiment of sex (woman).”’’ According to Eliot Borenstein in his book Men Without Women, “In [Platonov’s} early essays, sex is seen primarily as an enslavement to the material, animal world, an impediment 13. Ibid., pg. 67 14. Chagataev admires a portrait of Stalin, which he attributes to a Young Pioneer, who painted Stalin to kxdc like, “...an old man, the kind father of all orphaned people on earth," Chagataev says that “without realizing it. however, the artist had tried to make Stalin’s face resemble his own, to show that he himself now had a father and kinsfolk and did not live alone in the world," (21) suggesting that Stalin was to be more than just a metaphorical representation of fatherhood, but rather as a biological father that can pass on features to a child. 15. Borenstein, Eliot. Men Without Women. Durham: Duke University Press, 2000. Print, pg. 191

>1 ll *

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on the road to revolutionary awareness; woman the ‘embodiment’ of sex, comes to represent everything that must be overcome in order to lead a truly human life.”'* Yet, the conversation of female sexuality seems unsuitable in the analysis of the female orphans in The Foundation Pit and Soul. As young children, Nastya and Aidym perhaps more closely represent androgyny and asexuality. Still, it is important to focus on gender roles and the expectations of young girls, since young children will inevitably grow into adults. One example of the enforcement of gender roles in the ideological upbringing of children is the involvement of women in the Komsomol, the Soviet youth organization. While the organization was open to both male and female youth, by 1924, only 15 percent of members were females.’’' '* Barbara Engel in her book Women in Imperial, Soviet and Post-Soviet Russia argues that even though the Komsomol declared the goal of liberating women, they, “idealizfed] exuberant, unencumbered, and communal forms of behavior best befitting an adolescent male.”’’ She writes, “the Komsomol considered all women ‘backward’ and even dangerous because of their association with the private sphere.” Though Lenin spoke of the importance of attracting women into the party, there seemed to be a lack of political female role models compared to male role models, even in propaganda. While laws reflected equality among women and men, the Soviet hero was almost exclusively portrayed as a man. Whether young girls were members of the "Ybuth Communist League or not, they received the same political education as their male peers, including military-patriotic education’” since the Communist party largely prescribed and controlled schools to be geared towards the objectives of political socialization. Ifet, while both boys and girls were subject to the same indoctrination of political socialization, gender roles continued to be cultivated separately in the classroom. Gender equality was considered a secondary concern in the classroom even though it was part of the new curriculum and as a result teachers perpetuated tradition gender roles.” However, the perpetuation of gender roles was considered unimportant because if both genders found significance in joining the Pioneers and contributing the growth of communism, which took precedence over issues of gender stereotypes.” In The Foundation Pit and Soul, the nature of Nastya and Aidym as female children is contradictory—as children they are a source of hope for those struggling to build a Soviet society, but as female adults they become an obstacle in the preservation of the society On one hand, they motivate the revolutionary cause, yet on the other hand they will inevitably grow into that which disrupts 16. Ibid., pg. 194 17. By 1987, the number of females rose to ^3 percent. 18. Riordan, Jim. “The Komsomol.” SovietTouth Culture. Ed. Jim Riordan. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989. pg. 23 19. Engel, Barbara Alpem. V^bnen itt Imperial, SovietondFbst-SovietRusda. 'VC^hington, DC: American Historical Association, 1999. Print, pg. 24 20. Kuebart, Friedrich. “The Political Socialisation of Schoolchildren." Soviet Ibutb Culture. Ed. Jim Riordan. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989. pg. 103 21. Kirschenbaum, Lisa. Small Comrades: RevolutionizingChildhood in Soviet Russia, 1^17-19^2. New York: RoutledgeFalmer, 2001. pg. 119

The Child as a Symbol OF Utopia, cont. Nadia Hoppe it. Platonov seems to specifically emphasize the childhood feminine in both The Foundation Pit and Soul by placing the young female orphans in almost exclusively male company Aidym, a girl, is the only child among the Dzhan nation and the only female in the story that does not have a questionably romantic relationship with Chagataev. Nastya, after the death of her mother, is also the only female among the workers in The Foundation Pit. While Aidym is the only female child in the Dzhan nation, she is far from the only female in the novella. "Yet, a clear difference between her and the other women in the story is motherhood. This is consistent with The Foundation Pit, in which the only female other than Nastya is her mother. As Eric Naiman argues in his article “Andrei Platonov and the Inadmissibility of Desire” Platonov often associates Utopia with a return to the womb. He says, “While Platonov’s characters often speak of the resurrection of the dead as their aim, the author’s language and imagery frequently indicate that return to the uterus is an equally desired end.”“ This makes sense in the context of both The Foundation Pit and Soul. In The Foundation Pit, the male workers have devoted the remainder of their life to digging a giant hole, one that could represent the womb. Meanwhile, in Soul Chagataev is reliving a journey through the desert that he once long ago took with his mother, which alludes to another journey that a mother and child take together—pregnancy and birth. As Naiman says in his article, “In Platonov’s works mothers are glorified, their memories held in reverence. His stories and novels are replete with idealized visions of maternity; at times his positive heroes themselves acquire traits of idealized maternity...who give birth to the new world.Platonov himself, in his essay entitled “Soul of the World,” writes about the importance of the mother as the producer of the child. The child is the embodiment of progress and future, while “woman is valued as the mechanism that brings forth a product that is vital to the common cause—the child.”’* As children, the characters represent not only the future, but as females they also the perpetuation of progress. Present in Soul and The Foundation Pit is another element prevalent in Platonov’s writing—death. Soul centers around an entire nation of starving people, while The Foundation Pit is riddled with imagery of coffins and graves. Naimain writes, “Platonov plainly saw collective, empathic hunger as more in keeping with their view of the communist ideal.”’’ This is because “Under these 22. Naiman, Eric. “Andrei Platonov and the Inadmissibility of Desire.” The Russian Twentieth-Century Short Story. Ed. Parts, Lyudmila. Brighton, MA: Academic Studies Press, 2010. Print, pg. 144 23. Ibid, pg. 145 24. Borenstein, Eliot. Men Without Women. Durham: Duke University Press, 2000. Print, pg. 211 2$. Naiman, Eric. “Revolutionary Anorexia.” Sex in Public. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997. Print, pg. 213

circumstances [of national hunger], the body became an appropriate canvas for the painting of ideological portraits...{and] excess in eating and excess in sexual behavior were two of the traits used to distinguish the bourgeois from his or her hardworking proletarian counterpart.”"^ Naiman suggests that in the 1920s the lack of female menstruation is linked to the golden pre-capitalist age when women only menstruated once a year due to poor health and conditions of near starvation."’ In Platonov, it is most probable that the starvations and poor health conditions that Nastya and Aidym endured were enough to render them absent of menstruation. Yet, it seems just as probable that Nastya and Aidym are too young to menstruate. Because of their lack of menstruation they are unable to be pregnant and therefore unable to become mothers, but one day they will grow to become women who are able to menstruate (provided that they are in healthy condition). Yet, the girls have the potential to one day menstruate, whether it is maturity or healthy conditions that are needed to start the process. It is inevitable that they will physically develop into women who are capable of menstruation and it is assumed that by the time this does happen conditions will have improved. For example, in Soul part of Chagataev’s mission is to lift the Dzhan nation out of hunger. On the other hand, in The Foundation Pit, the men’s struggle represents a small portion of the nation’s struggle that will is to end with end with an improved life for future generations—one that most undoubtedly will include abundant food sources and better health conditions. Similarity as discussed earlier, Nastya and Aidym are also too young to have the sexuality of a woman, but with time will grow to become women. Nastya and Aidym, as female children, represent the most desirable state of human being in the context of Platonov’s fictional world and his historical world. As females they represent possible mothers, yet, on in a negative aspect, also represent the sexuality that distracts men from fulfilling their ideological goals. However, as children, this sexual danger is not yet existent. Nastya and Aidym are pure potential, representing motherhood and ideological correctness, while avoiding that which threatens the Soviet mission, like sexuality and bourgeois tendencies. Their potential is maximized by their status as orphans, which furthers their potential for ideological correctness because of the elimination of outside influence, such as parents. The female orphan child as a character symbolizes the perfect moment in development that aligns perfectly with the Soviet Union’s ideological goals and Platonov’s values, which is perhaps why this type is a recurring character within Platonov’s work. 26. Ibid., pg. 209, 214 27. Ibid, pg. 218

NAT US Daniel Succo my cradle is impish, it is cunning and ardent, impassive is feigns mirth and stands impregnable to time, its core is the rose and within, the hollow gem, the one known, the one with a slavish eye, the one sprouting leathery wings, deeper is varnish and further, sand, ripen! double and flatten! collapse willingly into pitch. the gilded eyes of the mother, lone dire passions of the boy. lives minds cosmic depths of rose petals raise dead memories, buried notions, intentions.

there is nothing behind the roses.

LOOKING Uptown Jesse Wheaton

Nocturne Philip Vachon Tonight the moon wobbled And tipped Spilling its shine over lovers Sweet lipped,

It rushed down alleyways Avenues Sidewalk moon silk All for you, Debating with smiles Which was better I penned the nocturnal This love letter.

CONSTELLATION Jesse Wheaton

B urning Evening Jesse Wheaton

(NOT) A LOVE Story Faustina Lim Spring nears and she is reminded of the day when she realized that it took her five years six months three weeks ten days and fourteen hours to come to the heart wrenching conclusion that she never knew him at all. That I. he never spoke to her when he was sad was not because he didn’t trust her but that 2. he knew that she would be unhappy if he was unhappy. And 3. he didn’t say ‘I love you’ as many times as she secretly wished he would because 4. he already said it in his kisses, in the pictures his fingertips painted on her skin and that his sad smile on the day they parted - she remembers the cold, the bare trees around them and the sole gas lamp fading overhead; she remembers the sound of her heart breaking, that there was never a sound more pitiful than that - was not 3. one that said I’m sorry we don’t belong together but that 6.1 need to know that you can be happy by yourself before we can be happy together.

Kate Weigel

Two PLACES, Two PEOPLE, ONE Rhythm T Nicholas Rzepski I.

Jean hadn’t lain on his stomach since March Sth, 1990. It was only on his stomach that his broken collarbone would feel out of place. He had maintained the fracture because he liked the way it clicked when he walked. The rubbing bone was a metronome for his stride. Jean moved along the Seine until he got to the bridge outside the city near the Bois de Boulougne. Yuri was there early for once. “In a minute I have to go but here it is, I got to get it off me now,” Yuri said. Jean came to a stop in front of the two figures under the bridge and wiggled his shoulder to get one last click out of the collarbone.

Two Places, Two People, ONE Rhythm, cont. T Nicholas Rzepski “Whose the lady with you,” he said to Yuri, but looking at the woman. “I know you always say ‘just us at the bridge’ but she won’t talk, she’s good at forgetting.” Jean still had his eyes on her. “Is that right? "Ybu can forget good?” The woman had a half smile that mimicked the curves of her figure. “I’d say surely, mister. But I’ve forgotten that too.” Jean meant to smile but clicked his collarbone instead. “Its all here, can you just take it? I got to get this one to a restaurant before they all close. Otherwise we aren’t fucking tonight.” Yiiri grinned at Jean as if they had the same problem. Jean clicked his collarbone a second time. “Those restaurants get awful crowded at night and this the first spring night when everything is still. Especially out here. I’d dare to say the Seine, well, she don’t have no current out here.” As she spoke, the woman only looked at Jean “How’d you know, I thought you only forget,” Yuri lashed. Jean lifted the sack off the ground where Yuri had left it. The weight felt right. The business end was closed. “I don’t mean to foster your appetite with my questions,” Jean said to the woman, “but I didn’t get your name.” The woman crossed her legs and her flats patted the quai like a friend’s back as they moved. She touched her hair and it fell behind her shoulder like a wine bottle to the water. “O don’t worry yourself, mister,” she said. “I’ve got other, greater appetites. And my name, oh now don’t you worry about that, you’ll only forget it.” Jean tried to reflect her half smile but his mouth didn’t have the experience to do so. He left the bridge and walked along the Seine, his collarbone clicking the night through. II.

Raul loved her still even though he had never told himself in the first place. “I just wanted your opinion because I respect it and unfortunately you are someone who knows my writing and all its faults” He looked up after he had finished with his words and there were her eyes. Green and blue and grey had blended within the limits of her iris to a color only sailors knew best. It was the color that would come before a storm, as the waters were just starting to churn.

“Why is that unfortunate?” she asked, picking up her coffee, sipping, then placing it back to the table. Raul moved his eyes along the grain of the table. It ran perpendicular to the handle of her tasse. His eyes fixated on the red lipstick along the rim. He had watched it gather with each sip and his head rung with the peculiarity of the deposited rouge. What a waste of red. What a waste of red. “Why is that unfortunate? Raul?” she asked again. She had interrupted her picking up, her sipping, her placing of the coffee to pursue the question and Raul realized he had drifted into the common sensuality around him. He met her eyes with his again and felt the smooth grain of the table as he answered. “Well I suppose it’s not unfortunate. I don’t have a way with words as you can tell I guess,” he chuckled, breaking the flatness of his lips with a smile. She had picked up her coffee and was about to take a sip but Raul had stopped her with his words. She was about to speak when the waiter ducked his head in between them to clear the plates and wipe the table. “Was the club sandwich good? Susie fixes them up better than anybody I have two a-day myself” He spoke while clearing the plates. Balancing them on one arm, he whipped a white rag from his waist and went to wipe the wooden table. Raul lifted the typed poem off the table and she, her tasse. He waited until the last moment to move his hands from the grain. “The coffee and club sandwiches were delightful,” she said. The waiter smiled and whisked off tottering the white dishes on both arms. “Ok, so I was going to say your words are fine. Truly They flow nicely and hold their own within meter. But your ideas, your subject. I’ve...! don’t know what to think of it. I feel it’s not even a subject. What are you actually trying to say with the words? I think that’s your problem.” Raul felt the grain of the table and it was now dampened and the moisture reminded him of a flat sea. He looked at her eyes and now the storm of green and blue and grey had passed. A sailor would’ve touched his ivory talisman and thanked the powers at work for weathering another storm. “I’ve been feeling this table and watching your lips and the red they leave on the rim and I’ve been roving your eyes, not just now, today, since we met and your right. I’ve never written about any particular thing. Hell, I’ve only been plodding words together hoping they’d tell somebody somewhere something. But here. I’ve found a meaning for words in you.” She had picked up her tasse when Raul had started to speak but the red rim never made it to her lips. It was hanging from her grip somewhere between the table and her mouth as she paused and absorbed his words. Her eyes were a frozen lake at the cusp of spring. They were just waiting to thaw. Setting her tasse down, she went to speak but the waiter beat her to it. Sweeping between them again whipping the white rag from his waist to the wooden table he said, “Is there anything else I can get you two?”

BEING Megan Laubershimer

he was there without being there.

standing, silent, his face to the sun. moments tick by, and I watch him watching, apart and alone. he was there and elsewhere.

a compound, a confine of the mind, straddling two lives, the real and the wanted. pain: harsh, sharp, mesmerizing pain, the kind that keeps his movements jerking, his hands fluttering as he puts on show, the real, the real that calls for masking, a game of hidden tortures and lonely moments, of a fear that keeps him silent, a guilt that claims him insignificant, hiding from the truth that justifies his shortcomings, the real, nothing more than an act. broken faces and twisted souls in a dance of forced smiles and saddened eyes, no one escapes the real, not completely.

but he was there without being there, tangible, touchable, flesh and blood, slipping through my fingers like water in a stream. the wanted, a life without pain, without unrequited dreams and broken pieces of broken promises and silent knowing that this life is nothing we’d imagined, dreaming of the day only to reach it and realize it’s nothing more than a day in a week in a lifetime, nothing special in the days he dreams, nothing more than continuation of the day before connected by the silent hours of the night, of sleeping wonder of what might have been and never will be. he was there without being there.

a kite in the breeze, too much to endure, a fine line between the real and the wanted. too much to want, floating by afraid to touch the ground, for the want to become real.

he was there, and I was with him.

Botella de agua Granger Lostaunau a Oliverio Girondo

Des-corchame A-b r e me Gi r a m e

sed, sed, sed, sed, sed, sed, sed, sed dame un oasis en este desierto, planta sobria planta de fe. un oasis artificial, de plastico o de metal, embebeme la concoccion y mezcla mis aguas benditas con la inmundicia del rio 8 vasos diarios—prefiero con gas—asi floto y no tengo que pensar, solo tomar y tomar y sin alcohol embriagarme de minerales, y asi, la combinacion ideal, dos de hidrogeno, uno de oxigeno. la santa trinidad. mfrala chorrear. iAQUA PURAVIDATE CURA LA VIDA! iCOMPRAYA! iA SOLO 5.50! i H O YENTODAS LAS BODEGAS! iOFERTAESPECIAL! ioCALORIAS! iCON M A S O2! iLA MAS SALUDABLE! iY YA HAY DE DIETA Y CON SABORES! iAy mi corazon! Finalmente el gobierno entro en razon—se estan proyectando a la sazon por donde entra el dinero a su buzon y nos quedamos calatos en calzon hasta que Ilegue el punzon de la malnutricion y entendamos que todo file un tizon para satisfacer el hambre del pan zon. STOP. Y nosotros, jurandola tan barata ya que la llevamos innata y la vida a nadie le arrebata. No alcanza, no importa, pertenece al gob ierno. Agua para mf y para ti y no para ellos. Agua del ftituro, agua de duenos.

A COMING TO FORM Nadrah Mohammed i thought of rising, slipping carefully out of my body, then i thought i should run because, well, everyone was doing it. and when i stopped i had arrived at the river’s edge, the sun was rising really slowly — not because of any metaphoric birth; that’s just what time i got there. naturally, i tried to mourn, tried to wrench an elegy out of my gut -but it would not come. I could find in myself no melancholy for the seasons, nor childhoods lost nor slimy discontent — only exhilaration.

i searched then for a sonnet to seduce, not really sure how but that’s what they do, right?

i wondered, what do you give someone who wants nothing? how do you teach him to crave frivolous things and imaginary love?

i tried to empathize with my friend’s displacement, thinking, “maybe this is the poem!” but i couldn’t feel it, not that i was numb or silenced by all the poetry hanging eerily in the mist, alongside all the music entrancing or her words (which were the same ones

as yesterday’s.)

all the leaves disappeared in one gust of wind, while we were standing on the corner. a crazy leap of faith seized me, so strong i actually felt reality beating in my heart — an honest embrace lusciously flowing artery into atrium, elementary love children yearn for.

what would you search for if it went missing? this question must yield something. the form is beyond me, seductive or not — it’s nestled in mystery.

no confession can wrest it out of nothing, gently crackling with its elusion.

DER STRICH ALS EIN Medium der leidensceiaft: Gewalttatige Gram mat IK IN GOETHES BRIEFEN ,UND DIE LEIDEN DES JUNGEN Werth ER' Paul Kollmer In seinen Briefen an Charlotte von Stein versucht Goethe am 28. September 1779 mit seiner platonischen Geliebten per du zu sein. Sein Versuch scheitert, weil Charlotte nicht will, informell auf diese Weise mit ihm korrespondieren. Deshalb macht der Dichter einen Strich dutch ihre Worte und er schreibt „du“ auf ihre Benutzung von „Sie.“ Diese Korrektur bietet dem Leser ein Model an, mit dem er den Roman Die Leiden desjungen Werther (1774) lesen kann. Beide Texte handeln von einer unerwiderten Liebe, die mit dem Prozess des Schreibens vermittelt wird. In diesem Moment, in dem Goethe einen Strich macht, schreibt er aufunA nicht uber Charlotte von Stein. Was ich damit sagen will: diese Art von Korrektur kompliziert die Unmittelbarkeit, die Goethe in schriftlicher Form reprasentiert. Die Form der Briefe zeigt eine private Korrespondenz in beiden Texten, aber der Autor will nicht die Grenzen der Kommunikation und des Zusammenseins erkennen. Als Werther erstmals Lotte begegnet, schreibt er, „wie ich, in den herrlichen Sinn ihrer Rede ganz versunken, oft gar die Worte nicht horte, mit denen sie sich ausdruckte!“' In diesem Zitat sieht der Leser auch eine Reprasentation dieser Spannung des Zusammenseins. Als er Wilhelm erklart, wer Charlotte ist, ersetzt die Beschreibung ihrer Figur ihre tatsachliche Anwesenheit. Wenn der Leser diesen Brief mit dem Brief von Charlotte von Stein vergleicht, sieht er, obwohl der Autor mit dem Schreiben versucht, sich einer Figur zu nahern, scheitert noch sein Versuch, weil die fremden Figuren—Charlotte, Lotte, Wilhelm—eigentlich keine Stimmen haben. In diesem Artikel will ich iiber die problematische Rolle des Schreibens als ein Medium fur Kommunikation und das resultierende Spiel der gleichzeitigen Distanz und Nahe in diesen zwei Texten von Goethe sprechen. Ich diskutiere die potenziellen Bedeutungen des Striches in beiden Texten, weil es eine haufige Technik ist, die in bestimmten Kontexten eine figurative Art von Leidenschaft und Gewalt darstellt. Ich frage: Was bedeutet es, das „Sie“ wegzustreichen? Wie kdnnte die Form eines Striches I. Goethe, Johann Wolfgang. Die Leiden desjungen Werther. Stuttgart: Philipp Reclam, 1986. pg. 2$

in beiden Texten funktionieren? Ich muss sagen: die verwirrte Verbindung zwischen den personlichen Schriften von Goethe und seinem Roman wird nicht nur in diesem Artikel bemerkt. Als Charlotte von Stein mit Goethe korrespondiert, muss sie sich gefragt haben, ob sie Briefe von Goethe oder Werth er bekommt. In dem Text Dichtung und Wahrheit zeigt der Schriftsteller, dass der Fall von Werther ein Abbild seiner eigenen Erfahrung sein konnte. Der offenbare Vergleichspunkt, mit dem der Leser beginnen konnte, ist die Ahnlichkeit zwischen den Namen des Schriftstellers und seiner Hauptfigur. Der Leser konnte auch die Dreiecksbeziehungen in beiden Texten bemerken. Wahrend Goethe seinen Briefwechsel mit Charlotte von Stein beginnt, schreibt er keine „literarischen“ Texte. Anders gesagt werden keine Texte, die veroffentlicht wurden, absichtlich produziert. Die Korrespondenz mit Charlotte von Stein wird als ein Anlass zum schreiben und als ein Ersatz fur literariche Beschaftigung interpretiert. Deshalb interpretiere ich die Briefe und den Roman nebeneinander.

In dem Roman von Goethe wird der Strich nicht fur einen einzigen Zweck benutzt. Ein anderes Wort fur den Strich in Die Leiden desjungen Werther ist der Gedankenstrich. Es ware unproduktiv zu behaupten, dass der Leser die Rolle des Gedankenstriches mit einer Sammlung von Regeln zusammenfassen konnte, weil der Text sich gegen festgelegte Formen richtet. Die kiinstlerische Epoche, ZU der der Roman gehort, versucht eine unmittelbare Form zu schaffen. Sturm und Drang Literatur, der kanonisierte Name der Arbeit von den „jungen Wilden,“ fokussiert nicht auf traditionelle Poetik sondern auf einen Ausdruck der Emotionen, die keine bestimmte Form hat. Deshalb konfrontiert der Leser die privaten, unzensierten und fragmentarischen Briefe von Werther, die ein Herausgeber sammelt und prasentiert. Ich stelle fest, dass der Leser die Erscheinungen des Gedankenstriches in dem Roman folgen und eine Interpretation in bestimmten Kontexten machen kann, obwohl eine merkwiirdige Eigenschaft dieses Romans seine Formlosigkeit ist. Womoglich funktioniert der Gedankenstrich oft als ein Ausdruck dieser Formlosigkeit. In den Briefen zwischen Goethe und Charlotte von Stein und in dem Roman interpretiere ich eine figurative Gewalt, die der Strich betont. In vielen Fallen wird der Gedankenstrich in den Briefen von Werther geschrieben, um die Stimme einer anderen Figur hinzudeuten. Zum Beispiel schreibt Werther iiber seine erste Begegung mit Charlotte: „Die Base fragte, ob sie mit dem Buche fertig ware...—Nein, sagte Lotte, es gefallt mir nicht, Sie kdnnen’s wieder haben. Das vorige war auch nicht besser.—„ (24). Hier erfullt der Gedankenstrich die Rolle eines Anfiihrungsstrichs, der einen Dialog in dem Text markiert. Sowohl Werther als auch der Herausgeber benutzen einen Gedankenstrich, um Dialog oder eine andere Stimme anzuzeigen. Ich will nicht argumentieren, dass der Strich in diesen Momenten des Dialogs eine figurative Bedeutung impliziert. In dem zweiten Buch gibt es Anfuhrungsstriche auch im Text, die der Herausgeber benutzt, aber, sie kennzeichnen, dass der Leser

Der Strich als EIN Medium der leidenschaft, cont. Paul Kollmer die echten Dokumenten von Werther liest. Obwohl die Gedankenstriche keine einzige, eindeutige Funktion erfiillen, bietet der Roman von Goethe eine standardisierte Benutzung des Gedankenstriches an, der ahnlich wie ein Anfiihrungsstrich ist. Kurz gesagt: Der Gedankenstrich wird nicht immer figurativ benutzt. Trotzdem stehen imText andere Gedankenstriche, die nicht diesen Unterschied zwischen Werthei7I lerausgebcr und einer anderen Stimme identifizieren. Werfe der Leser einen Blick auf den Eintrag i6. Junius, in dem Werther schreibt, „Warum ich dir nicht schreibe?— Fragst du das und bist doch auch der Gelehrten einer. Du solltest raten, dass ich mich wohl befinde, und zwar—Kurz und gut, ich habe eine Bekanntschaft gemacht, die mein Herz naher angeht.’” Hier wird der Leser mit einer Unterbrechung konfrontiert, die den informellen und personlichen Stil von Werther einfuhrt. Dieser Gedankenstrich hat eine figurative Funktion, die die schriftliche Abwesenheit von Werther betont. Fiir sechzehn Tagen schreibt Werther nichts und jetzt entdeckt der Leser, dass er ziemlich viele Schwierigkeiten hat, nur einen Satz zu formulieren. In diesem Brief verandert sich Werthers Ton durch die Gedankenstriche, in dem er erkennt, dass Wbrte allein sein Begehren nach Lotte nicht ausdriicken konnen. Der Gedankenstrich wiederholt das Schweigen der vergangenen Tage und deshalb prasentiert er dem Leser eine figurative Formulierung. In derselben Passage schreibt Werther direkt fiber diesen Konflikt, als er sagt: „was ich da von ihr sage, leidige Abstraktionen, die nicht einen Zug ihres Selbst ausdriicken.”’ Anders gesagt erkennt Werther, dass die Sprache als ein Mittel scheitert, well es nicht die Ganzheit dieser Figur umfassen kann. Als er seine Einffihrung dieses Briefes zum Schluss bringt, notiert er rasch, dass seine Augenblicke ans Fenster gehen und er sehen will, „wie hoch die Sonne noch steht.------- “ Er will hinausreiten: „Ich muss zu ihr hinaus.”'* Dreimal erscheint der Gedankenstrich und hier bietet der Text auch eine potenzielle figurative Bedeutung an, weil die Form und der Inhalt dieser Textstelle sich verbinden. Die drei Gedankenstriche ahmen die Bewegung des Hinausreitens nach. Sie formulieren nicht eine einzige pregnante Pause sondern eine rhythmische Reihe, die die hektische Bewegung und emotionelle Intensitat der Figur Werther zusammenfasst. Ich gebe zu, dass es relativ frei ist, die drei Gedankenstriche als den Klang 2. Ibid., pg. 20 3. Ibid. 4. Ibid., pg. 21

eines laufenden Pferdes zu interpretieren. Trotzdem will ich mit diesem Beispiel zeigen, dass dieser Brief gleichzeitig einen Kommentar iiber die Unfahigkeit der Sprache und eine performative Darstellung dieser Unfahigkeit andeutet. Ich muss die Binsenweisheit schreiben; Der Gedankenstrich ist sicherlich ein Teil unserer Sprache, aber er bezeichnet einen Bedeutungsverlust. Er ist ein Mittel, umWerthers Leidenschaft auszudriicken. Werther etabliert eine Dichotomie: er muss entweder hinausreiten oder schreiben. Deshalb muss er zwischen seinem Begehren und seiner Pflicht, zwischen seiner schriftlichen Abwesenheit und seiner Anwesenheit entscheiden. Der Gedankenstrich ist eine Technik, die diese Spannung betont. In diesem Sinne fiinktioniert der Gedankenstrich wie die Aufierung, „Ach.“ Die erste Erscheinung dieses Wort kommt am to. Mai vor, als Werther schreibt, Wenn’s dann um mcine Augen diimmert, und die Welt um mich her und der Himmel ganz in meiner Seele ruhn wie die Gestalt einer Geliebten; dann sehne ich mich oft und denke: ach konntest du das wieder ausdriicken.’

In dieser Passage vergleicht Werther die nattirliche Welt mit der „Gestalt einer Geliebten." Das „ach“ ist ein Versagen der Sprache oder eine Aufierung, die erkennt, den scheiternden Versuch der unendlichen Natur zu ergreifen. Der Leser beobachtet, dass in dieser Textstelle und in seinem ersten Brief fiber Charlotte das Wort „ausdrficken“ geschrieben wird. Beide Briefe handeln von dem Problem dieses Prozesses, in dem Kunst auf der einen Seite und in dem Schreiben auf der anderen Seite steht. Das „Ach“ und der Gedankenstrich bieten eine performative Reprasentation des Versagens der Sprache und ein Mafi der emotionellen Intensitat im Text an. Der Leser konnte fragen: Was ist denn der Unterschied zwischen einem Ausrufezeichen und einem Gedankenstrich in diesem Roman? Beide Formen der Zeichensetzung kdnnten als ein Mafi der emotionellen Intensitat funktionieren. Der Leser konnte behaupten, dass alle Worte und Interpunktionszeichen in diesem Roman diese Funktion haben! Ist die Entscheidung, dem Gedankenstrich in dem Text zu folgen, willkfirlich? Als Antwort auf diese Frage: das Ausrufezeichen spielt auch eine Rolle im Text, aber der Gedankenstrich unterscheidet sich, well die Benutzung dieser grammatischen Form eine performative Schopfung des Weggehens hervorbringt. Der Leser sieht in dem Brief vom i6. Junius, dass der Gedankenstrich die Distanz der Hauptfigur reflektiert. Er ahmt dieses Begehren nach, hinauszureiten oder wegzugehen. Als die Besessenheit der Hauptfigur immer grdfier wird, schreibt er „Sie ist wieder in der Stadt bei einer Freundin. Und Albert—und—ich muss fort!“^ Wieder sieht der Leser die Verbindung zwischen dem Weggehen und dem Gedankenstrich. Werther kann einen ganzen Satz nicht fertig machen und die Gedankenstriche zeigen Werthers fragmentarische schriftliche Anwesenheit. Der Leser denke an den ersten Satz des Romans; „Wie froh bin ich, dass ich weg bin!“’ Unter anderem ist Die Leiden des Jungen Werther ein Roman 5. Ibid., pg. 7 6. Ibid., pg. 66

7. Ibid., pg. s

DER STRICH ALS EIN Medium der leidenschaet, cont. Paul Kollmer des Weggehens. Der Leser beginnt mit einer Deklaration, dass eine Distanz zwischen der Hauptfigur und seinem Adressat schafft. Der Gedankenstrich ist ein Mittel des Weggehens und der Isolierung. Gleichzeitig stellt der Gedankenstrich—dieser Ausdruck der Distanz, diese schriftliche Form einer leidenschaftlichen Formlosigkeit—eine Nahe vor. Was ich damit sagen will: Obwohl der Gedankenstrich eine Distanz zwischen Werther und seinem Adressat Wilhelm und zwischen Werther und Charlotte markiert, beobachtet der Leser einen besonderen Ausdruck von Einsamkeit, die unvermittelt wird. Christiane Frey behauptet in ihrem Artikel, „Ist das nicht der Fall der Krankheit—Der literarische Fall am Beispiel von Goethes Werther," dass der Roman die Rolle einer Fallgeschichte spielt. Sie sagt, „Nun liefie sich leicht zu dem Schluss kommen, dass Goethes Werther als Fallgeschichte aufzufassen ist, die mit literarischen Mitteln den Selbstmord verstehbar macht.”* Deshalb existiert der Roman, um eine einzigartige Geschichte des Individuums darzustellen, in dem der Leser nicht nur eine Figur sondern eine unverstehbare Ausdrucksform kennenlernt, die heute als Krankheit klassifiziert wird. Ein wichtiger Teil dieser „literarischen Mitteln" ist der Gedankenstrich. Er charakterisiert die Figur Werther und erlaubt dem Leser sich den Grenzen seiner privaten Ausdrucksform und seines personlichen Stils zu nahern. Trotzdem verwandelt sich diese Distanz und Isolierung, der der Leser und der Herausgeber folgen, in eine gewalttatige Aktion, die der Gedankenstrich figurativ betont. Bevor ich die Benutzung des Gedankenstriches in den letzten Momenten des Romans diskutiere, will ich iiber die Briefe zwischen Goethe und Charlotte von Stein sprechen. In seinem Brief schreibt der Schriftsteller, „Indess die andre Seite trocknete hab ich deinen Brief durchkorrigiert, und all Ihnen weggestrichen. Nun wird es erst ein Brief”’ Bislang habe ich iiber den Gedankenstrich in dem Roman gesprochen und ich gebe zu, dass die Striche dieses Textes nicht zu dieser grammatischen Einordnung gehoren. In Die Leiden des jungen Werther behaupte ich, dass der Gedankenstrich ein Ausdruck der Leidenschaft und eine Form ohne Form ist. Der Strich in diesem Brief ist nicht ein Gedankenstrich, aber die wesentliche Fragen sind: Was heifit es, eine gerade Linie auf dem Papier zu schreiben? Was heifit es, in dem Kontext des Romans einen Strich auf einen Adressaten zu machen? Ich interpretiere die Striche dieses Briefes als die Auserungen einer leidenschaftlichen und gewalttatigen Technik, 8. Frey, Christiane. “’1st das nicht der Fall der Krankheit?’: der literarische Fall am Beispiel von Goethes Werther.” Zeitschriftfiir Germanistik. 19.2 (2009) pg. 321

9. Goethe, Johann Wolfgang. An Charlotte von Stein. New York: Arne Hocker Press, 2012. Print, pg. 9

die die Gedankenstriche in dem Roman auf eine ahnliche Weise darstellen. Auf der einen Seite legen die Schreiber—Goethe und Werther—das Begehren vor, eine Art von Intimitat mit einem Adressaten zu entwickeln. Goethe will per du mit Charlotte von Stein sein. Werther will auch die formelle Verlobung von Charlotte ignorieren und ihr Geliebter sein. Auf der anderen Seite ist das Resultat dieser Leidenschaft eine Bedrohung. Wenn Charlotte welter das Sie benutzt, schreibt Goethe in seinem Brief, „Zur Strafe schreib ich dir nichts von mir...“’ In dem Roman schreibt Werther, als er seinen Entschluss macht, Selbstmord zu begehen, Ja, Lotte! Warum solke ich es verschweigen: eins von uns dreien muss hinweg und das will ich sein! O meine Beste! In diesem zerrissenen Herzen ist es wiitend herumgeschlichen, oft—deinen Mann zu ermordern!—dich!—mich!— So sei es denn!—

Das Zusammenspiel der beiden Texte zeigt dem Leser die potenzielle Interpretation einer gewalttatigen Aktion, die der Strich welter entwickelt. Das Wegstreichen, das der Schriftsteller Goethe darstellt, verweigert die Identitat seiner Geliebten und es prasentiert auch dem Leser eine symbolische Art von Mord. Das heifit die permanente Abwesenheit des Schriftstellers oder der formellen Frau, die immer „Sie“ schreibt. In dem Roman driickt das Wegstreichen die wiederholte Bewegung des Textes aus—Das Weggehen. Werther sagt in seinem Brief, „eins von uns dreien muss hinweg." Ich argumentiere, dass die Gedankenstriche in bestimmten Kontexten dem Leser eine performative Darstellung des Weggehens anbieten. In dieser Passage kommt auch eine figurative Darstellung des Weggehens vor. Nachdem Werther seinen Plan aufdeckt, schreibt er einen Gedankenstrich direkt nach den Namen der drei Figuren. Jeder Gedankenstrich funktioniert als ein figurativer Mord, eine definitive Abwesenheit. Selbstmord ist der letzte leidenschaftliche Ausdruck der Hauptfigur und der Leser kann diese abschliefiende Aktion in der Benutzung des Gedankenstriches interpretieren. In bestimmten Kontexten erkennt diese Form das Scheitern des Versuchs, die Grenzen der Kommunikation zu fiberschreiten. Trozdem prasentiert diese Form des Schreibens—eine Form der Formlosigkeit—eine neue Moglichkeit, die Perspektive ein einsames Individuum zu verstehen. Obwohl Werther und Goethe auf ihre Adressaten schreiben, prasentiert die persbniiche Form ihrer Korrespondenzen ein Medium der Leidenschaft und des Mitleids. IO. I. Goethe, Johann Wolfgang. Die Leiden desjungen Werther. Stuttgart: Philipp Reciam, 1986. pg. 129

J-TRAIN Granger Lostaunau "ibu hold your breath out of his reach, compressed, not because you’re angry his face is much too close, but on the grounds that you never learned his name. "You want to say hello, you hesitate; intimacy is not the kind of thing to make you sweat but on the J; you wrestle with your skin your epidermic wetsuit and you want to tell the man you’re sorry for your wetsuit—your wet skin —anatomical leak —freudian slip —no time to call the plumber. Instead, you say, “Excuse me, sir, this is my stop,”

and push his face away with the breath you held compressed within so close to you before.

Dizzy daisy a little lady Sarah Andrew Sweet little lack In the right and the ripe She’s tiny but she’s trite She’s raw and lawless But she’s missing in all this Bowing and dipping in and out Of sun and of shine Roses for rain kisses for the kind The turning world nibbles at her feet But she turns and turns not knowing She bleeds And kind Sunday it was She spun right down Around and around And on the ground She noticed the sky The horizon nighttime No more lines to follow But The stain of her blood She sinks And stays at the night to gaze At the red coming round That hushed sweet daisy Warm in the ground

te regalo April DeLancey Todo como siempre las paredes azules la mesa ratona sin terminar las sillas del comedor disparejas.

Pero nada puedes ver.

. .

Pues ahi hay algo y no tienes opcion mas absorberlo, ya que no queda nada mas. Alli danando la caoba pulida amada gotea y sangra su necesidad carmesi.

Con cada segundo que pasa pierde calor y no es hermoso, no merece la fama de tarjetas de felicitacion ni ningun escaparate de febrero. No, es tan horripilante el renombre que recibe horripilante y debil tan indiscutible como alii se acuesta.

Late. Intenta respirar pero sin mi no puede.

Como yo sin el no respiro.

Y estoy de pie aqui mirandote mirandolo.

El unico movimiento es el de la sangre que gotea de mis manos y se derrama desde esta cavidad fresca. Se drena de mi. Me estoy drenando

drenando drenando.

Shredded Souvenir Tonca lain even now, when the wind carries along diegetic sounds from an old movie trapped in a motherless essence of vulnerability, I stand at distance from the cultivated fields and perform our days’ dance in my mind.

what a waste, what a wonderful waste we have come upon here; I stare at the wooden bench weused to light our never conversational smokes behind; hidden, hidden from the parents, the children, from the grass and the distorted trees. have you ever touched my face without indifference, prevented my date with passionate contempt? I would haverun through the fountain and reached the tunnel if the ashes of our melodrama had been swept away; but there are too many particles irises can’t recognize. I’ll guide you through your open youth: it’s blood that circulates beneath the ground; not water, not mud, we have been told echoing lies, protestants, manifestants and colonized diplomas: morning calls, I stuck the dagger.

Blur David Gustafson He didn’t realty know where he was going. It was definitely downtown, although he was still so bad with directions he hadn’t yet realized that going downtown is synonymous with going south in the big apple. His destination was somewhere on LostThe west coast, suburban composition-a gridless labyrinth-he remembered with nostalgic sigh David was having difficulty adapting to the city’s structured layout. Back home he’d navigate by sight and memory and smell The exit to his house always had that telltale smell of skunk shit. The city’s myriad streets all looked 'wanderer, a 'white canvas in his mind As if haloed by a lightbulb-lit sign emblazoned “no-shit,” David decided, “maybe I should take a cab...” However, it was Halloween, and after all “tis the season to be jolly” VChit, wrong holiday.. Anyway David was wearing a Domo-kun costume and resembled aJapanese sasquatch—cuddly He amused himself in his wanderings whilst searching for cabs by staring down strangers and walking towards them, arms outstretched, silently asking for hugs. Just about every stranger surprisingly that echoedsilence, Egures that David would end up at the party late, and late meant no booze. Not that he could probably find it in the cluster fuck that was the kitchen. A beer pong table dominated the room like a watering hole surrounded by parched college animals. He squeezed past the throngs of the tipsy and drunk to the stairs leading to the emptinessshoutedandswaUofwedhim -whole. The heavens, something rarely seen in the city were quite visible from the small rooftop 50 people were managing to occupy-he met new people. David decided not to take off his fuzzy attire and continued to blankly stare at people, miming his answers and staying in character. He hugged just about everyone that ventured upstairs. There was one individual,Jess’s friend Indy who was one over too many eights. David introduced himself to Indy When he realized that Indy was drunk off his ass he decided to reintroduce himself as as the -whitepaint that dribbleddown the canvas Vivian, asian, cute, bubbly and smart, more than definitety his type. She was one of the few who recognized his costume and one of the fewer who actually thought it was funny She talked aggressively and he listened aggressively As they walked downstairs she turned around and looked up at him. With a coy grin she reached down and slipped into his costume and fiercely andformedaface that mouthed. Stared—nothing. The one thing he missed most about his hometown was the stars. Wilking at night wasn’t the same when he couldn’t enjoy the grass whispers and dimly light sky Maybe it was time for him to head to “The end.”

Neoyorquino Granger Lostaunau Can I get your order ma’am? You see, yo soy de aqui pa’lla de Broadway y la ciento tres, recorrida hasta de reves with my bag in hand y la gorra pa’tras. Ya soy el mensajero, the delivery man. Ni en suenos me despego de mi alma d’ forcejero, I’m your average dandy peinadito d’ lado y faux moustache. Comment allez vous, Madame? I tip my cap y avec un sourire te digo, pour toi eu muero, voce es mi puerta’l cielo y si miento, qui sais? Sauf mi Dio primero, extraviado en el recorrido from A to B—pardon! no se ofenda, es un witz, esta boquita de blasfemia, rien! Solo pizza; extra topping, extra cheese, mayo pa’ los que quieten mas. And sur moi? Soy neoyorquino, y la vie est comme ga.

Tijuana Ben Miller “Don’t worry, David, don’t worry” Eli stalks across the kitchen barefoot, brandishing a banana. “I’m not going to take your son to Tijuana.” “You say this shit,” David says, “and never come through. I’m serious, Eli. No Tijuana. I need to get work done this afternoon. You watch him. Be responsible. Don’t go to Tijuana.” “I haven’t even gone in months,” Eli says. “I don’t go to Tijuana.” “I know what you do down there,” David says, massaging sunscreen into his bald spot. He turns to his son, who’s sitting next to him at the table reading about Mary McLeod Bethune for his third-grade book list. “No Tijuana, Sam. Remember that. Remind Uncle Eli if he gets any ideas.” Sam puts the book down and thinks: Eli’s done a lot of things Dad said not to do. Once, a year or two earlier, he showed Sam a photograph of a naked woman parting her legs. Half of her hand was inside of her. “See this?” Eli asked. “Cool, right?” Sam ran out of Eli’s room and downstairs into the bathroom and shut the door against the image. David drums his fingers against the tabletop, waiting for an answer. “Right,” Sam says. “We’re not going to Tijuana.” David and Sam come out to San Diego every year. Like fathers and sons do, they play-fight for the window seat on the plane. Eli picked them as he always does, standing cross-legged against the pillar at baggage claim, Hawaiian shirt untucked, black hair brushed back, Ray-Bans covering half his face. He drove them home in the ‘84 Volvo — white, still smelling of new car. Though his mother never drives anymore, the Volvo is strictly hers - Eli gets it for official business only. When she needs something, she calls Eli on his phone and summons him down to the warm basement bedroom, which smells of rose perfume and the glass-cased shiva candles she still burns in memory of her dead husband. “Elijah,” she says, “head over to the Safeway, would you? We need pear juice,” and he says, “Eli, Mom. Eli. "You know what my name is,” and sulks out of the room. The juice is there, two or three days later. Small victories. Eli was young once, young and long-haired and awesome. He’d talked his parents into letting his girlfriend live in the house, they’d shaken their heads in wonder as they said yes. He looked like his father, high nose, broad bony forehead; and sounded like him. “That’s my boy,” his father had said, and in the girlfriend came. The one concession Eli made to them was that he and the girl would fuck outside, in the canyon that dropped off behind the house. Eli knew which turns led to good burrows to hide in. He knew what kinds of roots could be grabbed onto when pulling yourself up the sandy-rocked side of a canyon wall, and which would snap under your weight. One spring night, Eli never tired

Tijuana, cont. Ben Miller of telling, they were lying around having just had sex. They had some weed on them, heard cops bark out a Who’s there? Eli took the girlfriend’s hand - her name was always lost in the telling - and they ran, ran naked through the bushes, leaving their clothes, grabbing the bag of weed and running from the cops, scrambling up the side of the canyon; they ran laughing through the doors of the house and threw open Eli’s window to the cool dry night and fucked and heard the panting swearing cops outside stumbling and stomping over each other to find them. It’s thirty years later. Now, Eli contemplates his gut. Now, Eli rips up bills marked LATE PAYMENT. Now, Eli clunks cartons of pear juice from Safeway up the low steps into the condo and his Celica, the third, is rusting at the back around the tires, staining the white paint. It’s in the Celica that they drive across the border. Tijuana is a blur of car upholstery shops and palm trees and dry heat making mirages in potholed roads. Eli stops at a little place with pink tables and a busted Ford on blocks in the front; inside, a little bar with a hot plate for eggs and a bored-looking waitress chatting up the bartender. “You,” says Eli, “are getting a Mexican Coke for not telling Daddy about our little trip to Tijuana. Chica! See, I can speak Spanish. That’s from living there” - he gestures north with his thumb - “and coming here all the damn time. Can you speak any damn Spanish? Huh?” He waves to the waitress, who comes to the table smacking gum. He orders a coke for Sam and a Corona for himself. Their feet stick to the floor. She brings the drinks back quickly. “Wait,” he says, and walks over to the bartender. They speak quickly in Spanish, and walk into a back room. Sam looks outside. A woman in pink sweatpants paws at a pile of trash with a branch. Two men whistle at her, she gives them a knowing glance. The waitress looks at him and shakes her head, yells something out, and the two men come back out quickly Sam catches a word or two. “Dexedrine.” It sounds like medicine.”Hurry up with that Coke,” Eli says. “Takes 40 minutes to get back to San Diego and I don’t want you to be late for your Daddy.” On the road north to the border checkpoint, Sam notices Eli sweating more than he usually does. There’s a traffic jam as always at the border. They’re stuck behind a tractortrailer full of chickens that’s letting out thick clouds of black smog that overwhelm the Celica’s aging AC. “Uncle Eli,” asks Sam, “why did we go down to Tijuana?” “Had business,” said Eli. The tractortrailer pulls through. “Now quiet. We have to be quiet at the border.” “Why?” asks Sam. “It’s a rule,” spits Eli. “Don’t you like rules?” They pull up to the counter. Eli shoots Sam a look.

“What’s Dexedrine?” asks Sam. There’s no answer. The window opens. The guard has blond hair pinned up behind her cap. She looks at Sam and smiles. “Trip for business or pleasure?” she asks. “Business,” says Eli. “Business of showing my nephew here another country. Cultural experience, like.” “What did you think of Mexico?” asks the guard. “It’s nice,” said Sam. “You all have a nice day” The lady waves them through. Eli holds his face steady and expressionless until the “California Welcomes You” sign is out of range of the rearview mirror. “What’s Dexedrine?” “Don’t worry, Sam. Don’t worry” Eli pats his leg, wahoo’s a few times, opens the Celica’s sunroof to let in the setting sun. Sam looks out the window. The car is whipping down the highway Tijuana’s houses and gas stations and vacant lots press right up against the border, but for a few miles, heading north towards San Diego, it’s all vacant. There’s just canyons: rutted hills, trees, chaparral, so much empty space all around as the car heads back up to Grandma’s house, leaving eddies of dust behind.

TO LOVE A PILLOW David Gustafson To sink into its soft memory foam— a sponge cake, with a sheath of soft frosting freshly washed, hugging your face in maternal embrace;

To skip atop a cloud, kicking up plumes of marshmallow dust, a tinge of pink laughter, rouge footprints, a seabed awash with the undulation of whipped cream;

To stretch across a bed of wishes, pufhng out prickly umbrellas to carry you away, nibble at your feet, pluck away at the lion’s mane, “She loves me. She loves me not,” Gently, Gently

ROMA Claire Pienaar Sangue giovane che sgocciola di un picco de vedova del tipo che maggior parte delle figlie hanno quando tagliano i cappelli corti strisci sulle giacche del denim con la consistenza del sorbetto di pernacchia Io nutrirle dormendo

Ho trovato una rosa nella fontana al baso della Piazza di Spagna ho pensato che era contraffatto ma I’acqua I’ha raffreddata a un plastico-petalo di che il nucleo giocavo sino al momento dove sentivo strana

e la ragione perche non mangio usualmente i kiwi non tagliati e perche no lo penso quando toglie i torsoli delle albicocche fortunatamente, ancora non darmi fastidio lasciare delle croste di pane sulla tavola coperta delle briciole

GUEULE DE COUARD(E) Xonca lain La diva est contaminee; son immunite diplomatique en pieces Queue d’ane pendue par I’instigateur en apparence hermetique de mon complot des heredites a interrompre des atrocites genitales a surveiller Ils ne se ressembleront plus Je suis un peu soulagee. Les sourcils de son nls s’endurcissent en castagnettes de I’ivoire de mes reins en eructations de I’ivresse de mon coeur Il faudra encore boucher ses canaux bleus d’agitation maternelle Il faudra encore nettoyer mon Saint-Esprit des parasites d’une imagerie en fuite de son ambition sauve-qui-peut la vie Je n’ai plus de comprehension. La campagne eclate de mais rouilles en sommeil de leur domicile conjugal Une abeille flotte sur une plaque d’eau infatuee de frigorification OU la diva plonge sa posterite d’imbeciles sans se soucier de I’amont en transmission et I’aval en voie surement d’extinction.

J’ai voulu les rejoindre dans leur randonnee en chasse d’aborigenes au sommet du mont coupable de culs-de-sac amortis en pilules matinales au printemps d’un hiver gradue en successions proteiques d’excitant napalm pour mes poumons de tragedienne surcharges de reculons Sisi cristallins que ce chemin est calamiteux! Ils m’ont repondu non non que le temps etait court non que ma face hideuse les transpergait de honte non qu’un couple du patrimoine romanesque actuel ne devait serpenter en ruisseaux inexpiables Je leur ai chante alors I’hymne nationale de I’araignee vadrouillant qui du sang faisait des sucettes et de mon espoir une sepulture pretentieusement abrutissante Ai-je baisse la tete...

PORTRAIT OF lACOBUS Padmini Parthasarathy lacobus with the long lashes swept upward into the swooping curl. lacobus with the bow lips pink and flubby and framed with the brown stick beard. lacobus with the mountain cheeks with the translucent skin stretched over the bone. lacobus with the twelve fingers splayed stiffly on the stomach. lacobus with the inked forearm with the confident made-up Latin, with the “Lupus Temperamentalis.” lacobus with the bare forearm left for Spanish yet unknown. lacobus with the hood-hoodie shoved up around the elbows exposing the hands, entombing the head.

lacobus of Queens. lacobus of Norwalk. lacobus of Kings. lacobus of Nicara-wa. lacobus with the plastic baggies from the vitamin shop filled with the medicine. lacobus with the Bible hiding Bubba, Oh-Gee! Sour Deez, “Freeze,” for sale. lacobus with the shotgun echo laugh. with the recoiling cigarette cough. with the heart with the bullet-sized hole. lacobus swept upward into the swooping curl.

Creators Editors-in-Chief L

VALENZA

aura is a sophomore studying Comparative Literature. She plans to spend the summer working at Za Restaurant, Wild River Review, and Morven Museum. Her essay “Storystruck” was published in the 2012-13 Mercer Street. One of her favorite things to do is paint with the support of her fat cat, Maple May (who tests to see if each painting will make a good bed).

EiAYLEY Munguia is a Gallatin junior concentrating in Verbal and Visual Communication for the Modern Age. Sometimes she claims to be a writer, but mostly her days are spent planning her next country hopping experience, pretending she’s a flapper and hating on the Oxford comma.

uillian inon is a junior studying Comparative Literature and History. He is from New Jersey, but he grew up in the islands, in the Philippines more particularly He dabbles in being a Pre-Med student. Train stations are his favorite places. His first pet was a chicken, which he kept in a box. He loves yoga and is part of the Gallatin Yoga Club. And he can’t ride bikes.

WEBMASTER Paul K^OLLMER is a senior majoring in German Literature and Culture and minoring in Comparative Literature. He hopes to teach English abroad, promote an active literary community, and continue to work with international students in educational settings.

Liaison NAFEESA DAWOODBHOY

is a senior, studying comparative literature and creative writing. Her piece entitled Forever is a Long Time to be Happy For published in the Spring 2011 edition ofBrio and she has been involved with Brio as an editor ever since. She reads the Desiderata once a day and recommends it to all who seek respite from anxiety Her other retreats include dabbling in poetry cooking and collecting stuffed animals.She plans to enter academia and face post PhD unemployment, with a hope that a higher understanding of the world will be worth the possible starvation and/or hiding out in the mid-west.

Editorial Team Evan bobellais a junior in the CAS Language and Mind department who is fascinated by words. He is also a musician, proficient on cello and guitar, a past editor of and contributor to NYU’s Mercer Street, a hopefully soon-to-be author, and general lover of written language who wants to be David Foster Wallace when he grows up.

VanESSA GUBBINS swam across the Panama Canal to get from the Pacific to the Atlantic three and a half years ago to attend NYU. She departed from Peru and disembarked on the shores of the Hudson. It is unclear whether she ever had to go through immigrations at JFK. Her majors include thinking, overthinking, and sometimes putting those thoughts on paper. She is seldom coherent in her native Spanish, sometimes so in English, and terribly incoherent in French. Nonsense, gibberish and surrealism are her preferred forms of communication, though every so often, she does appreciate a well-reasoned argument.

EioppE

Nadia Comparative Literature major with a focus in Russian literature. When she is not working on her senior thesis, she is hanging out with her three roommates or dreaming about the fried cheese in Prague, where she studied last year. She is graduating this semester and moving to the Midwest where she will start the PhD track in the Slavic Languages and Literatures department at University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign...wish her luck!