YALE REVIEW最新文献

{"title":"Waves, and: To a Son","authors":"Sarah V. Schweig","doi":"10.1353/tyr.2023.a908681","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/tyr.2023.a908681","url":null,"abstract":"Waves, and: To a Son Sarah V. Schweig (bio) Waves Here we are in Barbados at Waves Hotel and Spa.We are three, now, with an infant son.Every other guest is British, burnt pink and smoking. The literal is all that's left.Our son cries, and for a few long secondsI do nothing, keep writing. Everyone has a penchant for cruelty, given opportunity.Between feeds, I order a \"mango breeze colada.\"By the highway, men selling coconuts wield machetes. The sunset is burnt pink and smoking.Our son needs to go down one more time before the long sleep.He cannot speak, but screams. My mother always says: He is taking in everything.Implicitly: He cannot yet accuse me of wronging him.My husband always says I always use words like never and always. To the sound of my son clinging to waking realityI drink in the view and a colada. Fear and worry,fear and worry, hardening oneself to it, no escaping. The sky is pink and smoking. The sea glints like machetes.Another day in paradise, says the man trying to sell bracelets.(What he must think of us!) [End Page 123] Maids come imperceptibly while we're at breakfastand make our bed. Privilege is the dream of not havingto make one's bed. The water is turquoise and azure.The scar where our son was pulled out of me screamingis turning a shade of burnt pink, darker and darker. The waves at Waves are shallow but the horizon immense.Our love for our son is immense.Then suddenly I forget his existence. The burning sun rises behind us and over the water sets.The waves break and break.In the eyes of the staff, my pale son is just another guest. They have children of their own, somewhere else. The other side of the islandperhaps. Each morning at five they wake to drive hereto sweep the sand from these decks. The literal is all that's left us, them, anyone.It's what we've been taught, what we've been told.The scramble of headlines is the world. We come here to forget, throw away thoughts like the Brits the butts of cigarettes.What will the human world look like when our son is old?How old will he be at his death? At ours? There is no longer any moral center. Was there ever?Like the porous rocks that keep washing upI want to far-fling these thoughts. [End Page 124] Welcome to Waves, where waves break and breakand remind us of the sleep machine we broughtto soothe our infant son. We are three now. We hope waves inside the sleep machine move himfrom waking to dreamingseamlessly. The water is gold and cyan. We are different than we were.Is this your first time on the island? Are you a gold star member?The questions come ceaselessly, and we force the gracious smiles. Is this your first time by this turquoise water?We break like waves into laughter. Yes, this is our first child(likely last). This time by the turquoise water will be a time to remember! We hope it won't be our last! We've been taughtto nod to one another rather than smile behind our masks.How nice, everyone exclaims, that things return to normal! Our son is referent-less and f","PeriodicalId":43039,"journal":{"name":"YALE REVIEW","volume":"2013 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135640104","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"Winners","authors":"Merritt Tierce","doi":"10.1353/tyr.2023.a908668","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/tyr.2023.a908668","url":null,"abstract":"Winners Merritt Tierce (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution Courtesy Tdorante10, licensed via Creative Commons. [End Page 14] It happened again when I was bleeding out in a hospital in Conroe, Texas. We had flown in from Colorado to visit my parents the day after Christmas. My husband and my dad didn't get along so well, but my mom had begged, pleaded, and then bribed us to come, paying for the plane tickets and a rental car because she was dying to meet Leila, our toddler. Because of the pandemic and her diabetes, my mom hadn't been able to come see us in Denver for two years, and she and Leila—her first grandchild—only knew each other from FaceTime. She had been coaching Leila to call her \"G-Ma,\" speaking in a syrupy third-person I found mildly appalling—G-Ma can't wait to count all those teeny tiny little fingers and toes, no she can't! —but Leila was an easy crowd and laughed at whatever Mom said to her in that tone. The kid's mirror neurons seem to work, I said to my husband, Kaveh. [End Page 15] I was thirty-five when I got pregnant with Leila, so I was still on the young side of old for a first pregnancy. But technically it wasn't my first pregnancy—I got knocked up in college, after a D1 victory orgy. I played basketball for UT in Austin, and my junior year both the men's and the women's teams won their respective championship games, becoming only the second school since UConn to dominate like that. The men won their game first, crushing Kentucky, and they all came to our final game in suits and ties, looking extremely fine. We were more of an underdog to beat Stanford, but they'd lost their star center to a concussion in the semifinals, and our nonstop full-court press wore them down. We'd made it to a ten-point lead with a minute left in the third quarter, and I got wide open for a corner three. When I went up for it, I was flagrantly fouled—basically rugby-tackled, and sent stumbling into the photographers—by their hotheaded point guard. As I walked back toward the free throw line, I caught Kevin Cordell's eye; he was a forward on the UT men's team, and he was sitting along the sideline behind our bench with all our guys. Without cracking a smile or giving any sign of recognition like he knew me, he held my gaze as he put his fingers around his mouth in a V, then flicked his tongue. I almost laughed, but I kept my composure; it could have thrown off my whole approach, but instead it made me so happy to be there in that moment. At the foul line, I knew the shots I was about to take could give us an even more robust buffer if I sank all three. The title felt like it was almost mine alone to clinch or lose. I closed my eyes, visualizing the swish as I exhaled, and when I opened them, for some reason I looked back at Kevin as I bounced the ball. He made porn-eyes at me as he subtly rubbed his nipples through his lavender dress shirt and I iced the first shot, grinning. When I looked over at him before the second shot, he had hi","PeriodicalId":43039,"journal":{"name":"YALE REVIEW","volume":"14 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135641261","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"Quick Recovery, and: Speedway Creamer","authors":"Jake Fournier","doi":"10.1353/tyr.2023.a908672","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/tyr.2023.a908672","url":null,"abstract":"Quick Recovery, and: Speedway Creamer Jake Fournier (bio) Quick Recovery I put on my thigh-highs and step into the gulch.The slicked rocks strewn with exploded carpand plastic garbage give way gradually tothe sulfurous waters where they say the boy drowned.My arms in to the shoulderI turn my face up to a sky so bright its blueoozes around the outline of a crooked pine. Nineteenand a half and high, he'd been a toiler in the pit onesummer and this was unemployed. I knowa little about work so my sympathy is right whereyou'd expect it to lie. If his gut didn't split he'd havefloated to the surface but his face is calm enough thatwhen they get him drained if they still want to [End Page 56] they'll open the casket at the chapel. I never had beefwith ugliness, can hardly get drunk, don't go inmuch for Jesus but I know He said \"I'll makeyou fishers of men\" and a couple other things thatin my case proved true. For godsake if you want to get fromhere to happiness you go straight through. You dig likeI tell my kids all the way to China. Showering at the stationthough I'm trying to picture it right and seems like you'dcome up somewhere in the ocean or on somePacific island, maybe Indonesia. [End Page 57] Speedway Creamer Take it to the bathroom and put it in your pocket. Come backand pay for it. What about some butter? Your consciencelikes the stimulus. It saddles your fib in velvet,breaks it. Now you squirm when you sit. Supernaturalstillness buried in your laughter, discoordinatedgestures, you switch off every fan in the earthship anddrive to the throbbing core, back to the labor ward. A woman, noncompos, clutches at your ear as you pressher ruptured uterus. Has she come down from the meth? Canshe consent? Your stitching draws a compliment—\"At leastyou're consistent\"—from a resident. \"Fuckingsidewalk people,\" says the woman's father. \"Sure as hellain't living with me.\" At the back of your mind where [End Page 58] your spirit hangs down like a uvula, youswallow him alive. Maybe that's why when you'rewaking up at 3, all you can think is, \"I need coffee and a dickin me.\" The cretin that becomes us when we titterat the homeless lunging for the car or crushingindustrial caulk into the street, that giddy feeling ofabsurdity and sorrow, is what guides you to thesuffering. You're like a dowser's rod jerkingto an underwater stream. \"What'sthe point of this?\" you think. Break down crying. Fourhours later, purple as a bishop's robes and lightas fluorescence, the baby's in your hands. You lay heron her mother's chest. A noise like icicles crashing on aplastic drum catches in her throat. A momentof quiet, then the attending leaves to check hermessages. The placenta almost radiates as the scrubnurse eases it into a gleaming, clear container. [End Page 59] Jake Fournier jake fournier is a poet and scholar who lives in Albuquerque, NM. His poetry has appeared recently in Lana Turner, Annulet, and Partisan Hotel. He researches abolitionist poetry, and his scholarship can ","PeriodicalId":43039,"journal":{"name":"YALE REVIEW","volume":"8 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135641262","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"The Nature of Shelter","authors":"Brenda Shaughnessy","doi":"10.1353/tyr.2023.a908667","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/tyr.2023.a908667","url":null,"abstract":"The Nature of Shelter Brenda Shaughnessy (bio) Humans need shelter and space —but beauty eyes space for itself. Airis a medium, a mere translator a mule—predetermined life as carrier unto Death. I want molecules upon moleculesto ebb out my eyes and entermy mouth, are you molecules? Do you dare smoke in winter for the sex air? Soliloquy has it out for me, handlinginner space like an amphitheaterof all middle seats. Can't hear myself? Or can't remember? Or forgot I heard. I followed you, hem and whiskeron fire to the fire.Home was a blister rubbed open & looking burnt, nervous flesh every day, left out. [End Page 12] The branch will hold, my shelterand the false animal everywherecracks an egg on the sidewalk just to see it become itself as if under another sun. Traveling to a new home paintedshell pink, god's membrane,filthy memory, release me: shed from my meat— I'll fill every wave. [End Page 13] Brenda Shaughnessy brenda shaughnessy is the author of six poetry collections, including Tanya (2023) and The Octopus Museum (2019). The recipient of awards from the Guggenheim Foundation, the Radcliffe Institute, and elsewhere, she teaches at Rutgers University-Newark. Copyright © 2023 Yale University","PeriodicalId":43039,"journal":{"name":"YALE REVIEW","volume":"8 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135640103","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"Thinking in Public: Whom are intellectuals writing for?","authors":"Becca Rothfeld","doi":"10.1353/tyr.2023.a908665","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/tyr.2023.a908665","url":null,"abstract":"Thinking in PublicWhom are intellectuals writing for? Becca Rothfeld (bio) Afew months ago, I was working on an essay about mindfulness and other schools of uplift, and I found myself in the unenviable position of thumbing through a number of books by the motivational writer and \"thought leader\" Ryan Holiday. It turns out that there are many of these, including several tracts on public relations that Holiday wrote before his turn to guruism. My project was about Stoicism, not corporate publicity, so I was spared Growth Hacker Marketing: A Primer on the Future of PR, Marketing, and Advertising. But I could not dodge The Daily Stoic: 366 Meditations on Wisdom, Perseverance, and the Art of Living. [End Page 5] The book annoyed me in all the ways I thought it would: its engagement with intellectual history was facile (\"many of history's great minds not only understood Stoicism for what it truly is, they sought it out\"), and its reduction of Stoic doctrine to a series of slogans was grating (\"you don't control the situation, but you control what you think about it\"). But what was most irksome was the sheer smirking quality of its tone. Holiday writes in a cooing, coaxing mode usually reserved for standoffs with obstinate children. \"Could these ancient and obscure pages really contain anything relevant to modern life?\" he asks. \"The answer, it turns out, is yes.\" Later, he explains that he and his co—author \"sought to organize and present the vast collective wisdom of the Stoics into as digestible, accessible, and coherent a form as possible…for the busy and active reader, we have attempted to produce a daily devotional that is as functional and to the point as the philosophers behind it.\" The problem is not that the book's stated aspirations—making Stoicism \"something one uses to live a great life, rather than some esoteric field of academic inquiry\"—are unworthy. The humanities are too often treated as the preserve of tweedy specialists, and they ought to speak more clearly (and more enjoyably) to life on the ground. But Holiday's execution conflicts with his intentions: To write as if your audience is made up of your intellectual inferiors, as he does, is not to make philosophy \"accessible,\" but rather to render it, however inadvertently, snobbish and alienating. I cannot help resenting the assumption that I am incapable of appreciating ancient philosophy on my own, or the suggestion that I could only ever savor the complex flavors of the primary sources if they were converted into snackable nuggets. The guiding premise of The Daily Stoic is that its readers are not peers but pupils. Holiday's patronizing style may be particularly craven, but it is not unusual. As Mark Greif observed in an unforgettable essay in The Chronicle Review in 2015, condescension is widespread among public intellectuals. The problems Greif encountered when he invited junior academics to write for n+1, the literary magazine he helped found in 2004, \"were absolutely not those","PeriodicalId":43039,"journal":{"name":"YALE REVIEW","volume":"22 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135640108","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"Found Frame Works: Y. Malik Jalal's wrought portraits of Black life","authors":"Y. Malik Jalal","doi":"10.1353/tyr.2023.a908676","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/tyr.2023.a908676","url":null,"abstract":"Found Frame WorksY. Malik Jalal's wrought portraits of Black life Y. Malik Jalal it could be said that Y. Malik Jalal, a sculptor from Savannah, Georgia, and a current MFA student at the Yale School of Art, creates \"frame\" works, fashioned from welded iron and car parts. Found family photographs, purchased by Jalal on eBay, stand at the center of each frame. The images range from candid to posed, somber to comical, secular to religious; collectively, they form a portrait of Black life in America. Jalal works in the legacy of southern Black craftsmanship as well as the legacy of assemblage—where juxtaposed elements create new paradigms of seeing and thinking. Used rubber car mats become a surprisingly suitable frame, formally, into which Jalal inserts his images, responding to the object's existing lines. What does a frame do? It says Look here. In moving the car mat from its usual spot underfoot—where it is rarely remarked upon or closely observed—Jalal asks us to linger over it as frame. Questions of ownership, neglect, and reverence arise in what is contained—and in what contains it. —will frazier [End Page 96] Click for larger view View full resolution The Posture of Repentance, 2022. Courtesy the artist and March Gallery. [End Page 97] Click for larger view View full resolution Bruh, it's kids in here #2, 2022. Courtesy the artist and March Gallery. [End Page 98] Click for larger view View full resolution Bruh, it's kids in here #1, 2022. Courtesy the artist and March Gallery. [End Page 99] Click for larger view View full resolution Memorial Day Weekend, 2022. Courtesy the artist and March Gallery. [End Page 100] Click for larger view View full resolution On the Surface of the Sun, 2023. Courtesy the artist and March Gallery. [End Page 101] Click for larger view View full resolution Almost burnt my lip #1, 2022. Courtesy the artist and March Gallery. [End Page 102] Click for larger view View full resolution Almost burnt my lip #2, 2022. Courtesy the artist and March Gallery. [End Page 103] Copyright © 2023 Yale University","PeriodicalId":43039,"journal":{"name":"YALE REVIEW","volume":"28 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135640248","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"Press-Ons","authors":"Justin Jannise","doi":"10.1353/tyr.2023.a908679","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/tyr.2023.a908679","url":null,"abstract":"Press-Ons Justin Jannise (bio) In a clear box, the nails arrivealready painted a matte light bluebehind clouds. I don't need to tell youthe clouds are white. Their round blubbery backsrise and briefly sail—a veritable pod of five or sixper nail. I prefer my own glue.It has a brush.I check each finger for a pulse, and soon,when I stretch I'm mindful thatanother quarter inchof the wind above and the infinitebelow appears within reach. Are you a poet like me,or is your love affairwith the sky already over?It's not clear, [End Page 111] it's breathtakingly blue,the sky. You told me to avoid that wordbut sometimes onewill still slip through. [End Page 112] Justin Jannise justin jannise is the author of How to be Better by Being Worse. A graduate of Yale University, the Iowa Writers' Workshop, and the University of Houston, Justin teaches at Prairie View A&M University. Copyright © 2023 Yale University","PeriodicalId":43039,"journal":{"name":"YALE REVIEW","volume":"74 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135641260","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"Unfathomable Life: Pregnancy in a hyper-medicalized age","authors":"Anna Hartford","doi":"10.1353/tyr.2023.a908670","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/tyr.2023.a908670","url":null,"abstract":"Unfathomable LifePregnancy in a hyper-medicalized age Anna Hartford (bio) You shouldn't think too much about it.\" I was in the office of my gynecologist, who had always struck me as an under-thinker. But now I agreed with him. I had overanalyzed the question of whether to have a child, and the process had not led to any resolve, only to a knot of fear and uncertainty. Yet when I stepped back everything was quite simple: I loved someone, I wanted his child, I wanted our family. At the time I was thirty-two. I assumed that once I stopped contraception I would conceive, almost by accident. I would follow my gynecologist's advice and scarcely think about it, and soon I would become a mother. I imagined myself as a pregnant woman, and then as a parent, who recognized how little any of it was in my [End Page 33] control; who did not fall for god-complex delusions about how every flap of my wing would reverberate through the life of my child, indefinitely. As it turned out, a very different future lay ahead of me, and with it, a very different self. To \"fall\" pregnant, as the British expression goes: how lovely and passive; merely yielding, surrendering, to a pervasive force. But for some reason, I would not fall. Stepping into my fertility doctor's room for the first time, some two years later, felt not unlike stepping onto a treadmill that forever picked up speed and would never let me off. The doctor paged enthusiastically through booklets explaining tier upon tier of treatment options: ovulation inductions and inseminations and regimens of hormonal injections; tubal and uterine surgeries; in vitro fertilizations, in which sperm and egg cells are joined in a laboratory; genetic tests and analyses; donor eggs and donor sperm and surrogacy. I had entered a place of branching choices and alternatives, of fierce debate and moral judgment and conflicting information, of endless recalculations of risks and benefits. My cherished notions of surrender and acceptance—with their convenient implications of innocence—soon gave way to a state of constant alertness, deliberation, anxiety, and research. ________ risk has a complicated relationship to knowledge. In one respect, risk concerns precisely what we do not know: its fundamental nature is uncertainty. But risk also implies insight: a recognition of what might transpire, even a glimpse of how likely it is. In an important sense, a guaranteed outcome is not \"risked,\" nor is an outcome that is utterly unforeseen. All pregnant people make choices that impact the prenatal environment—anxiously navigating an ever-expanding array of partly understood dangers that arise from plastics to phthalates to pesticides. Experts now advise a \"precautionary principle,\" which favors avoidance under most circumstances. New realms of epigenetics have opened up new realms of threat. Every move you [End Page 34] make potentially increases the risks of your child's future cancer or infertility or IQ loss or ADHD; every move is pot","PeriodicalId":43039,"journal":{"name":"YALE REVIEW","volume":"32 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135640106","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"Naming Joan Custard","authors":"Leanne Shapton, Sheila Heti","doi":"10.1353/tyr.2023.a908680","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/tyr.2023.a908680","url":null,"abstract":"Naming Joan Custard Leanne Shapton (bio) and Sheila Heti (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution 1 Alexander Milk Josiah Milk Josiah Milkweed Alexander Joseph Grant Milkweed Grant Josiah Milkweed Grant Josiah M. Grant III [End Page 113] Click for larger view View full resolution 2 Edna Sassafrass Adina Salzbury Adelaide Sugarplum Adelaide Sugarman Adelle Sugars Adella Delia Sugarbaum Brown [End Page 114] Click for larger view View full resolution 3 Joan Apples Jean Apples Jeanie Apples Jeanie Custard Rubella Custard Honour Wayburn Custard-Mouth Tum Honour Lorene Wayburn Horsehair Custardmouth Tum Joanie Tum Joan Custard [End Page 115] Click for larger view View full resolution 4 Fancy Mildred Somerset Jubilee Mildred Jubilee Summers Millie Somerville Celia Sommerville Cecilia Ruby Baumgarten Cecilia Estelle Harper Cecily Estelle June Gardenia Angela Gardenia-Feathers Moira Goldie Feathers [End Page 116] Click for larger view View full resolution 5 Agnes Choux Gaga Petty-Pou Ellie Peti-Poop Alessandra Candy-Poo Daum Lizzie Poopie-Doop Brown Lizzie-Lou Poopie-Doo Cabot Brownstone Baum Lizzie Cabot Brown [End Page 117] Click for larger view View full resolution 6 Angina Scarf Angela Dina Scarffle Mrs. Boston Scarffle-Soup Mrs. Dina Bauble \"Bunny\" Soupcon Brown Mrs. Dinah Bauble \"Bunny\" Roundtree Candybox Heartly Brownstone-Brown Mrs. Dinah \"Bunny\" Roundtree Simmons Mrs. Dina \"Bunny\" Roundtree \"Crystalina\" Texas Samsung Poppy-Tree Brown [End Page 118] Click for larger view View full resolution 7 Winnie Truebottom Winnie Bottoms Winnie Butterbaum Winnie Butterbottom \"Winnie\" Winnifred Buttertree Alison Gables Winnie Gables Buttertree Baum Winnie Gables Butter-Tree [End Page 119] Click for larger view View full resolution 8 Honoré Eatons-Simpson's-The Bay Clyde Eatons-Simpson's Jr. Clyde-Henry Eatons-Simpson's III [End Page 120] Click for larger view View full resolution 9 Devorah John Happenstance Devorah Louise Lizabeth Happenstance Miss Devorah Happenstance Pearlescent Twimby Mrs. Pearlescent Twimby Mrs. Sears-Roebuck Paula Pearlescant Twilbly Mrs. Sears-Roebuck Paula Pearlescant Twimbly [End Page 121] Click for larger view View full resolution 10 Jack Cotton Jack Cottonballs Jack Socks Cotton Jack Socks \"Cubit\" Empire-State-Building Cotton Jack Cottonballs Remington Shave Jack Cotton-Razor Remington Vegetable Shave [End Page 122] Leanne Shapton leanne shapton is an author, artist and publisher based in New York City. She is currently the art editor at The New York Review of Books. Sheila Heti sheila heti is the author of eleven books, including the novels Pure Colour, Motherhood, and How Should a Person Be? Copyright © 2023 Yale University","PeriodicalId":43039,"journal":{"name":"YALE REVIEW","volume":"3 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135640107","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"Paternal Leave","authors":"Caroline Gioiosa","doi":"10.1353/tyr.2023.a908674","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/tyr.2023.a908674","url":null,"abstract":"Paternal Leave Caroline Gioiosa (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution Giuseppe Penone, Maritime Alps. My height, the length of my arms, my width in a stream, 1968. © 2023 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / ADAGP, Paris. [End Page 76] On a purple evening, my father buried himself alive. He wasn't the first. It was a craze that swept the nation, a broom brushing dirt over the heads and bodies of dreamy Americans. But no one took the endeavor as seriously as my father. Earlier that year, an ex-boxer outside Inglewood, California, had interred himself for fifty-eight days and made national news. ABC aired the whole burial, down to the funerary rites, and then they spliced in a clip of the boxer doing push-ups in his cushioned coffin. My dad watched the sweat drip down the man's forehead on our TV, then called the radio station to inform them that he would bury himself alive for sixty days. The best camera crew my dad [End Page 77] could snag was from the local NBC affiliate. But if my father could beat out the boxer for time spent underground, his story would headline the news, I was sure, maybe even statewide. Now my dad ate his last supper—bacon, two hard-boiled eggs, a glass of raw milk—in front of spectating townies and the TV crew. At one point he sipped too audaciously, and the milk rode down his long, barren face. My mom frowned. \"He looks like he needs a bib,\" she told me, her nose puckered. \"It's unattractive.\" My dad went straight from the dining table to the casket. His racquet club friends carried his coffin from our dining room the whole six blocks to the Morrises' backyard, which was really an empty plot that stretched from the side of the road into the desert hills. Neighbors shoveled scoops of dry soil over his grave and around his two pipes, one for ventilation and one for viewing. I leaned over the ugly, half-buried thing to write down his last words, peering through the periscope. The scope framed his face, like a Victorian locket does a portrait miniature. Peter Carson, the youngest Carson brother, stopped digging and placed his hand on my dress sleeve. He said, \"Hey, Jackie. I've got good money on your dad beating out the world record with this stunt.\" I put my ballpoint pen to my reporter's notebook, shaking his hand off me. I'd met Peter in fourth-period Journalism. He wasn't so talented; he managed to misplace his modifiers when announcing the start of football season. We went on a couple dates in the cafeteria. I taught him ledes and inverted pyramids. That weekend we made out in the backseat of his VW Bug. \"Would you describe this burial as 'spirited' and 'sweat-inducing'?\" I asked. \"I think it's hard work and difficult,\" he said, nodding. \"'Hard' and 'difficult' mean the same thing,\" I said, writing them both down anyway. \"But at least we're burying him at the end of August. The night is temperate. The wind dries your sweat.\" I squatted in front of his shovel and rubbed the dirt between my fingers. \"Do you ","PeriodicalId":43039,"journal":{"name":"YALE REVIEW","volume":"374 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135640109","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}