SEWANEE REVIEWPub Date : 2024-08-09DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a934401
Lily Meyer
{"title":"One More Loca: On Pedro Lemebel","authors":"Lily Meyer","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a934401","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a934401","url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\u0000<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> One More Loca:<span>On Pedro Lemebel</span> <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Lily Meyer (bio) </li> </ul> <em>A Last Supper of Queer Apostles: Selected Essays</em> by Pedro Lemebel, translated by Gwendolyn Harper ( Penguin Classics 2024) <p>In 1994, the queer Chilean writer and performance artist Pedro Lemebel visited New York—\"all-expenses-paid,\" he notes in his sharp-tongued travelogue \"New York Chronicles (Stonewall Inn)\"—to commemorate the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Stonewall riots. He didn't enjoy the trip. In Chile, Lemebel was nothing if not visible; he was, indeed, committed to visibility, in more ways than one. In his poem \"Manifesto (I Speak from My Difference),\" which he first read, in heels, in front of a crowd gathered to protest the brutal right-wing regime that ruled Chile from 1973 to 1990, he announces, \"I am not a faggot masking as a poet / I need no mask / Here is my face.\" But in gay Greenwich Village, surrounded by \"two tons of muscles and bodybuilders in minishorts,\" Lemebel felt unseen and unwelcomed, despite having dragged his \"third-world malnourished loca body all the way here.\" <strong>[End Page 493]</strong> (We're going to come back to that <em>loca</em>.) All the macho, military-styled men on Christopher Street reminded him of the \"fascist brutality\" he'd endured for so long. Maybe, he thought as he walked through the Village, the gay history he'd traveled up the spine of the Americas to celebrate wasn't truly meant to include him; \"maybe,\" he wrote, \"gay is white.\"</p> <p>\"New York Chronicles (Stonewall Inn)\" appears in <em>A Last Supper of Queer Apostles</em>, a Greatest Hits-type collection of Lemebel's crónicas arranged and translated by Gwendolyn Harper. In Spanish-language writing, the crónica—a lightly journalistic form of short nonfiction that lends itself well to play and hybridity—is common; in English, we have neither crónicas nor a name for them, which impoverishes our literature. We could call them essays, and sometimes do, but in essays, writers often wander and ponder. A crónica is more like a snatch and grab. It's a form beautifully suited to Lemebel, who spent the Pinochet dictatorship staging three-minute \"flash actions\" in protest and whose writing leaps from slang to poetry, filth to beauty so quickly it collapses any distinction between them.</p> <p>A couple of notes on slang and language here. Chilean Spanish is ferociously slangy, and Lemebel's writing is very Chilean. It's also very queer. His gay language has nothing to do with that of Christopher Street; his world, in the 1980s, was not one of clones but of travestis and locas, terms Harper preserves in Spanish. <em>Travesti</em>, a collapsed version of <em>transvéstita</em>, refers broadly to a trans female identity not associated with medical transition; <em>loca</em> is roughly the same, though you could also read ","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"14 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-08-09","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"141969053","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}
SEWANEE REVIEWPub Date : 2024-08-09DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a934392
{"title":"Contributors","authors":"","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a934392","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a934392","url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\u0000<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> Contributors <!-- /html_title --></li> </ul> <p><strong>Hannah Bonner</strong>'s criticism has appeared in <em>Cleveland Review of Books, Literary Hub</em>, the <em>Los Angeles Review of Books</em>, and elsewhere. Her first collection of poetry, <em>Another Woman</em>, is forthcoming in 2024. She lives in Iowa.</p> <p><strong>Chase Culler</strong> is a writing teacher and bookseller in Boston. He's held fellowship positions with his two writing mentors Allan Gurganus and Clyde Edgerton. His work appears in <em>Joyland</em>.</p> <p>Born in rural Tennessee in 1939, <strong>William Gay</strong> began writing at age fifteen and wrote his first novel at age twenty-five, but didn't begin publishing until well into his fifties. He worked as a TV salesman, in local factories, did construction, hung sheetrock, and painted houses to support himself. His works include <em>The Long Home, Provinces of Night, Fugitives of the Heart, Stoneburner, The Lost Country</em>, and four collections of short stories. His work has twice been adapted for the screen. He died in 2012.</p> <p><strong>Urvi Kumbhat</strong> is a writer from Calcutta. She is currently a PhD student in English at Princeton University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in <em>Kenyon Review, AGNI, Gulf Coast, Protean Mag</em>, and elsewhere.</p> <p><strong>Jami Nakamura Lin</strong> is the author of the illustrated speculative memoir <em>The Night Parade</em> (Mariner Books/HarperCollins), a <em>Vulture</em>/<em>New York Magazine</em> Top Ten Memoir of 2023. Her work has appeared in the <em>New York Times, Passages North</em>, and many other publications.</p> <p><strong>Eduardo Martínez-Leyva</strong> was born in El Paso, Texas, to Mexican immigrants. His work has appeared in <em>Poetry</em>, the <em>Boston Review</em>, the <em>Adroit Journal, Best New Poets</em>, and elsewhere. His debut poetry collection, <em>Cowboy Park</em>, won the 2024 Felix Pollak Prize in Poetry and is forthcoming from the University of Wisconsin Press.</p> <p><strong>Caitlin McCormick</strong> is a writer who lives in New York by way of Arizona. Her work has been supported by the <em>Kenyon Review</em>, the University of Iowa, <em>Fractured Lit Magazine</em>, and the Axinn Foundation. Her writing has appeared in the <em>New York Times</em> and <em>Joyland</em>.</p> <p><strong>Lily Meyer</strong> is a translator, critic, and the author of the novel <em>Short War</em>. A contributing writer at the <em>Atlantic</em>, her translations include Claudia Ulloa Donoso's story collections <em>Little Bird</em> and <em>Ice for Martians</em>. Her novel <em>The End of Romance</em> is forthcoming from Viking.</p> <p><strong>Matthew Nienow</strong> is the author of <em>House of Water</em> and <em>If Nothing</em>, both from Alice James Books. His work has appeared in <em>Gulf Coast, Missouri Review, New England R","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"77 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-08-09","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"141935373","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}
SEWANEE REVIEWPub Date : 2024-08-09DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a934397
Jami Nakamura Lin
{"title":"The Last Best Ghost Boy","authors":"Jami Nakamura Lin","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a934397","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a934397","url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\u0000<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> The Last Best Ghost Boy <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Jami Nakamura Lin (bio) </li> </ul> <h2><em>1</em></h2> <p>We had the bad luck to come of age at the beginning of the end. Our senior year coincided with the season of tempests and pestilence. And although some of our surviving peers later made their livelihoods writing glib op-eds with names like \"The Year that Fuck Around Turned into Find Out,\" all <em>we</em> were concerned with that year was the ghost boys.</p> <p>In late autumn, our girls' school held a special assembly to discuss the third girl in our class to get pregnant. She'd been among us, and then she was gone: whisked out of our school, out of her home, as if she—like the other two—had never existed.</p> <p>It just kills me to look at you girls, with your hearts full of love, our headmaster said, dabbing at his forehead with a paper towel. He was a timid man, with milky white hair and milky white skin, and his hands always trembled when he stood before our pews. <strong>[End Page 406]</strong></p> <p>And then to have to look at those boys, the Thomases and Zacchaeuses of the world, with their hearts full of—of—</p> <p>He stopped, as if his innocent mouth were unable to even form the word.</p> <p>In any case, he said, I've taken a special step. I've ordered one hundred ghost boys to be delivered to our school. The boat from the other side will arrive tomorrow.</p> <p>We gaped. Not only because our school had, under the auspices of the church, always taken a hard line against any sort of spectral communion but also because no one had ever heard of such a quantity before. The swankiest Halloween parties usually only wanted two or three ghosts for atmosphere. Even the best downtown haunted hotels only shelled out for a half-dozen or so.</p> <p>Yes, the headmaster said, pleased at our reaction. The company had to go through quite a lot of effort for us, gathering boys from all over the plane. But, he said, his eyes roaming the pews, we thought the expense worth it. To protect you girls.</p> <p>The ghost boys, he explained, would provide companionship for us. They would be our friends, our study-mates. Perhaps they would—though the company could not guarantee this—develop a stronger connection. These ghost boys were perfect gentlemen. They were not like the hoodlums from the boys' school, with whom we could no longer share lunch or dances or after-school activities. We would not end up like those first three girls.</p> <p>Something the administration was offering to us on a silver platter—it had to be a trick.</p> <p>And yet even tricks glint in the sun. A trick flame can, in a pinch, warm you at night.</p> <p>We peppered the headmaster. Could the ghost boys stay in our homes, or was that a sin? Could they stay in our beds, or was that a sin? Could we sit next to them, side by side, with a pillow in between? Withou","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"30 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-08-09","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"141969052","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}
SEWANEE REVIEWPub Date : 2024-08-09DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a934398
Jasmin Sandelson
{"title":"Submersions","authors":"Jasmin Sandelson","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a934398","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a934398","url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\u0000<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> Submersions <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Jasmin Sandelson (bio) </li> </ul> <p>A massage therapist I see a few times a year settles me face down, tucks a towel into my underwear. With firm hands, she thumbs my neck, shoulders, hips.</p> <p>\"Usually,\" she says, \"your shoulders are tight. But today, your hips. Why?\"</p> <p>My shoulders get tight because childhood gymnastics left my spine flexible but weak, over time causing crystals of lactic acid to calcify around my scapulae. They also get tight because I hike them, unthinkingly, bracing against nothing.</p> <p>\"My hips?\" I say, my face squished by the cradle. \"I don't know.\"</p> <p>But I do know. I recall lying beneath N, my thighs wide open around her body.</p> <p>With excruciating exactitude, the massage therapist elbows my glutes. When I grimace, she chuckles. Then she bends so close I feel her lips by my ears.</p> <p>\"Good girl,\" she whispers. <strong>[End Page 428]</strong></p> <h2>_______</h2> <p>Later, I tell N about the massage. We're in bed, heads sharing a pillow the yellow of dandelions.</p> <p>\"Wow,\" N laughs. \"That masseuse is a bit of a domme, huh? You know, since I started doing kink, I see power everywhere. Little moments of body language or eye contact.\"</p> <p>\"It's like Foucault's idea, <em>the microphysics of power</em>,\" I say.</p> <p>She props herself on her elbow, kisses me.</p> <p>\"I like that,\" she says. \"Tell me more.\"</p> <p>\"Just that power isn't like, top-down—rulers and subjects. It's diffuse, it's in relationships.\"</p> <h2>_______</h2> <p>\"Been dating?\" a friend asks me at brunch.</p> <p>\"I've been seeing someone,\" I smile. \"A poet. But she's only here on sabbatical.\"</p> <p>\"Show me,\" my friend says, and I flash a photo from the dating app where we met.</p> <p>\"A hot butch in a button-down,\" they say, grinning. \"Does she just top the fuck out of you?\"</p> <p>I laugh. She does, but we, too, have microphysics. N, who is ten years older than me, has a house and a tenure-track job. N wears the strap and wields the crop. But she's shorter than me and softer-spoken and also has smaller hands—although her hands, as I told her one morning, our fingers twined, are just the right size. I stared into her eyes as I said so, and the insinuation—all knuckled bliss—or the memory, made her look away, and my power to do that, to fluster her, too, is part of what lets me yield. <strong>[End Page 429]</strong></p> <h2>_______</h2> <p>On the subway, I reread texts from N. I do this to distract myself as I pass through the tunnel, the long stretch between Brooklyn and Manhattan, which I fear so intensely that increasingly, I avoid the 4 train, though it is the line nearest my apartment.</p> <p>I avoid the 4 because its underwater crossing lasts three minutes and forty-five seconds—to the A's two minutes and the F's ninety seconds—and also because it was an over","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"48 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-08-09","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"141935380","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}
SEWANEE REVIEWPub Date : 2024-05-06DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a926963
Maeve Barry
{"title":"Girabella","authors":"Maeve Barry","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a926963","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a926963","url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\u0000<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> Girabella <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Maeve Barry (bio) </li> </ul> <p><strong>W</strong>hen my school friends play, they pretend to be mothers. I pretend to be God. Or I put a blanket over my head and imagine I birthed His son. I carry plastic babies by their arms like they’re skinned kittens. I never once think about parenting. I think about angels rejoicing. My image emblazoned on hundreds of thousands of gold pendants. Dangled on little girls’ necks, thickly fingered on hairy men’s rosaries. The girls at school do not understand this. I don’t know if Girabella does. She hasn’t really said. She lets me act like God when we play; she has no ideas or opinions about my stories. She just sits there until I say what comes next.</p> <p>I love Girabella because she lets me do what I want with her hair and her face. She wasn’t at all angry when I took my scissors to her hair. My mother was angry about the gold clumps that I sheared, which haven’t grown back. Girabella understands that the choppy haircut was not a result of my lacking ability but my strong sense of what is in fashion. <strong>[End Page 280]</strong></p> <p>She just lies there on her side with her new hair on the couch, like the lady in the picture of a painting that hangs above our piano. A harem painting, my dad told me, of a dead-eyed lady. Pale, also on her side, on a red and orange velvety sofa. That’s not what the painting’s about, my mother said, and she is the one who chose and then hung it. She said she and my father like the picture of the painting for different reasons. Really they just say the same reason differently.</p> <p>Girabella is a perfect friend because we are the same height. We don’t waste time standing back-to-back and debating half inches. But she is lighter, so I can lift her. People watch from the sand while I swing Girabella’s legs through the brown water. They watch and they think I am generous. Such a good friend, who is willing to forgo attention. All I want is attention.</p> <p>Why can’t you try acting like Girabella, my mother said one night at dinner. Girabella was quietly sitting at the table. Blankly staring and not eating until she was reminded. I’d been pretty loud—loud like the whole rest of the harem painting, apart from the dead-looking lady—singing a song I’d tried to teach Girabella. She couldn’t master the harmonies, so I sang all the parts, sliding my voice up and down through vocal registers and ending up very loud. I cried when neither my parents nor Girabella clapped at the end. I cried and then, like we always do this summer, me and my mom fought about American Girl dolls. I want one so badly. How can I learn to be God if I don’t hold any sway over the girls of His chosen country? My mother says they are too expensive and that I should learn to be grateful.</p> <p>Some parents of the kids in my class wanted to arm ","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"254 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-05-06","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"140933977","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}
SEWANEE REVIEWPub Date : 2024-05-06DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a926965
Lorrie Moore
{"title":"On Get Back","authors":"Lorrie Moore","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a926965","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a926965","url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\u0000<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> On <em>Get Back</em> <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Lorrie Moore (bio) </li> </ul> <em>The Beatles: Get Back</em> directed by Peter Jackson (2021) <em>The Lyrics: 1956 to the Present</em> by Paul McCartney, edited by Paul Muldoon (2021) (consulted: <em>Lennon Remembers</em> by Jann S. Wenner; <em>All We Are Saying</em> by David Sheff; <em>Love And Let Die</em> by John Higgs; <em>George Harrison: The Reluctant Beatle</em> by Philip Norman; <em>George Harrison: Living in the Material World</em> directed by Martin Scorsese) <p><strong>E</strong>arly Beatles songs, when one gives thought to them, are often rockabilly numbers: “Love Me Do” (their first hit) or “I Saw Her Standing There.” While often considered baby boomers, John Lennon and Paul McCartney were of course born earlier than that (part of the mysteriously named “Silent Generation”) and came of age in the 1950s. Their influences were Chuck Berry, Carl Perkins, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis. (According to Jann Wenner, Lennon sometimes claimed that no <strong>[End Page 295]</strong> song by anyone ever surpassed “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On.”) This inspiration is seen repeatedly in the long, amusing breaks John and Paul take in Peter Jackson’s extraordinary 2021 documentary, <em>The Beatles: Get Back</em>, as Lennon and McCartney appear to seek refuge from composing their own material on a brutal deadline (in the winter of 1969 they had less than four weeks to finish a dozen songs for a TV special) and instead begin to horse around, launching merrily into “Blue Suede Shoes,” “Roll Over, Beethoven,” or even “The Harry Lime Theme” from <em>The Third Man</em>.</p> <p>Yet two of the Beatles’ most haunting ballads (a year before the composition of “Yesterday”) were released together early in 1964: “And I Love Her” and “If I Fell.” The former is widely attributed to McCartney (Lennon referred to it as McCartney’s first “Yesterday”) and the latter belongs to Lennon who sings the main melody. (On YouTube one can find a group of mourners at Central Park’s Strawberry Fields all singing “If I Fell” in grieving chorus around Lennon’s memorial.) Listening to the two ballads, one might be forgiven for assuming that they both had the same singularly brilliant composer. Which, in a way, they did. Credited as Lennon-McCartney compositions, as most of the Beatles’ songs were, the sound was indisputably theirs. Both pieces have beautiful switches into open minor chords and a subtle cha-cha meter underneath. They were released on a single forty-five but neither was really a B side, though the B side was dealt to Lennon, the Beatles’ usual practice; McCartney typically had the A side. (George Harrison had the A side once, with “Something,” on a double A release with Lennon-McCartney’s “Come Together,” the latter eventually the target of a lawsuit from Chuck Berry. “Everybody was nicking fr","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"30 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-05-06","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"140933548","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}
SEWANEE REVIEWPub Date : 2024-05-06DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a926966
Hannah Bonner
{"title":"This Sort of Thing: On Heather Lewis's Notice","authors":"Hannah Bonner","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a926966","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a926966","url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\u0000<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> This Sort of Thing:<span>On Heather Lewis’s <em>Notice</em></span> <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Hannah Bonner (bio) </li> </ul> <p><strong>F</strong>or a couple of months in my early thirties, I engaged in an online flirtation with a married couple on the kink app Feeld. They were white, indeterminately wealthy, and looked like a Tommy Hilfiger inlay. In the beginning, I communicated solely with the Wife. She was peppy, energetic, and effusive in her interactions. Our texts were the best part of the entire episode. We flirted openly and enthusiastically. She was forward, pointed, athleisure-wear svelte. Initially, she handled the logistics of our hypothetical ménage à trois. She and her Husband had a private plane and could fly to dine with me anywhere; she was allergic to latex condoms and therefore I’d need to test and submit my paperwork for STDs; she was shaved: perhaps I could be too.</p> <p>The Husband was different. He told me about the acts in which the Wife and I would engage, the positions he’d put us in. He sent black-and-white pictures of the Wife: openmouthed, on her knees; her legs spread, post-fuck. The pictures were always porny with a twinge of pain. I was simultaneously turned on by his directives <strong>[End Page 310]</strong> while also chary. I felt something twisting in me like a corkscrew. The taste of it was tannic.</p> <p>I never met the Husband or the Wife in person. I have courted risk many times over, but in more immediate, tangible ways. When the texts pivoted from dialogue to demands, that’s when I extricated myself, cool as vapor. And, like everything in my life I have walked out on, I walked out without fully knowing why: why I never asked after the Wife, who sparked my engagement in the first place, why I chose to follow the Husband’s instructions for as long as I did. His particular style of sexuality was specific and humorless. There was no promise of pleasure or play for me.</p> <p>Pleasure and malice are bedfellows in Heather Lewis’s third posthumously published novel <em>Notice</em> (2004). In it, protagonist Nina also ensnares herself with a married couple, though to much more devastating ends. The sadistic Husband and his wife, Ingrid, use teenage Nina to play the part of their deceased sixteen-year-old daughter: sleeping in her bed, wearing her clothes, enduring the Husband’s sexual predilections without scruples. When Nina finally leaves, the Husband locks her up in a psychiatric facility. Stuck in solitary confinement, Nina develops another maternalistic, albeit sexual, relationship with Beth, a counselor in the facility, whose affections roil a “baying thing” within the deepest recesses of Nina’s soul. Though it may seem as though Nina is through the worst of it, the Husband hasn’t finished with her, and his anger’s denouement is so cruel that Lewis’s words practically curdle on ","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"26 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-05-06","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"140933760","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}
SEWANEE REVIEWPub Date : 2024-05-06DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a926969
Caitlin Horrocks
{"title":"The Profoundest Interruption: In Defense of Distraction","authors":"Caitlin Horrocks","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a926969","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a926969","url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\u0000<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> The Profoundest Interruption:<span>In Defense of Distraction</span> <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Caitlin Horrocks (bio) </li> </ul> <blockquote> <p><em>Evil is whatever distracts</em>.</p> –Franz Kafka </blockquote> <p><strong>I</strong>’ve had this quote on my phone’s camera roll since September 2021, when I saw it written on a sandwich board sign outside a skate shop in my neighborhood. Kafka’s declaration stopped me in my tracks: <em>Evil? Really? Maybe? I hope not</em>. I took a photo so I could keep thinking about it. Then I mostly tried not to think about it. I had, at the time, highly distracting one-year-old twins, plus a nearly-as-distracting five-year-old, plus the various distractions of constant daycare-borne illnesses and work and life and the friends my husband and I almost never saw and missed, and the writing projects we had no time for, and missed. Still, I did not think of those things as <em>evil</em>.</p> <p>Trying to focus on something despite the pings of notifications or the mental buzzing of our own worries, through the physical demands of needy children or of our own bodies, seems to me a <strong>[End Page 344]</strong> near-universal experience in our current age. But the relationship of distraction to creativity or contemplation is usually viewed as a straightforward obstacle or personal weakness to be overcome. The “proper” response to distraction is resistance. To meet it willingly, with abandon, is the capitulation of a lazy mind. Distraction can be destructive, keeping us splashing always in the shallows. But rather than Kafka, the quote I <em>want</em> to believe comes from a poem entitled “On Buzz Aldrin’s Birthday” by Marianne Chan:</p> <blockquote> <p><span>But the mind</span><span>has its sundry destinations</span><span>where it lands to find</span><span>sources of water.</span></p> </blockquote> <p>My mind has its sundry destinations, frankly, whether I want it to or not, and I would like to believe that there is water there, rather than barren doomscroll desert.</p> <p>When I could finally bring myself to think again about that quote on the sign, what I wanted was a loophole, some version of #notalldistractions. I found what I needed in <em>Attention and Distraction in Modern German Literature, Thought, and Culture</em> by Carolin Duttlinger, which discusses the lesser-known Kafka work of non-fiction, “Measures for Preventing Accidents from Wood-Planing Machines,” written for his day job at the Workers’ Accident Insurance Institute in 1910. In it, Kafka warns that industrial planing machines are so poorly designed, and the work conditions so inherently dangerous, that no level of vigilant attention can keep the worker completely safe, or even in possession of all his fingers. In general, Kafka’s insurance work treated moments of distraction, even those with physically disastrous consequ","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"132 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-05-06","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"140933924","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}