SEWANEE REVIEW最新文献

筛选
英文 中文
Galocher 伽罗切
4区 文学
SEWANEE REVIEW Pub Date : 2024-02-08 DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a919137
Keith Leonard
{"title":"Galocher","authors":"Keith Leonard","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a919137","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a919137","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 --> Galocher <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Keith Leonard (bio) </li> </ul> <p><span>The pepper-hint in the arugula.</span><span>The vinegar pinch</span><span>in the homemade dressing.</span><span>The sweet potato</span><span>with its puck of butter</span><span>lighting up our lips.</span><span>Dinner is the only time</span><span>when what’s going on</span><span>in your mouth is also</span><span>going on in my mouth.</span><span>It’s dinner and it’s kissing.</span><span>Kissing as the French do.</span><span>But the French don’t call it</span><span>“French kissing.” Until recently,</span><span>there was no word for it in Paris.</span><span>Now they call it “galocher,”</span><span>which is a play on the phrase</span><span>for ice skates. The tongues</span><span>like paired figure skaters</span><span>gliding into a layback spin.</span><span>The cherry-flip and loop.</span><span>The synchronous triple axle.</span><span>I like, very much, this performance <strong>[End Page 57]</strong></span> <span>of being your partner.</span><span>We practice our lifts. We orchestrate</span><span>our routine so one of us</span><span>can pick up the kids</span><span>while the other reads</span><span>or breathes for an hour.</span><span>When you set the table,</span><span>you furnish yourself</span><span>with the chipped plate.</span><span>Our water glasses reflect</span><span>the last bit of day. Most likely</span><span>one of us will have to glide alone.</span><span>The pond will be colder then.</span><span>The sound of skates carving ice</span><span>echoing between the naked trees.</span><span>When there is less to say</span><span>does the tongue begin to atrophy?</span><span>I can imagine mine so idle. <strong>[End Page 58]</strong></span></p> Keith Leonard <p><strong>Keith Leonard</strong> is the author of the poetry collection <em>Ramshackle Ode</em> (Ecco/HarperCollins 2016). His poems have appeared recently in the <em>American Poetry Review</em>, the <em>Believer</em>, <em>New England Review</em>, <em>Poetry</em>, and <em>Ploughshares</em>. He lives in Columbus, Ohio.</p> <p></p> Copyright © 2024 The University of the South ... </p>","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"37 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-02-08","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"139767488","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}
引用次数: 0
Don't Leave a Good Time Looking for a Good Time 不要为了寻找美好时光而离开美好时光
4区 文学
SEWANEE REVIEW Pub Date : 2024-02-08 DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a919131
Michael Bazzett
{"title":"Don't Leave a Good Time Looking for a Good Time","authors":"Michael Bazzett","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a919131","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a919131","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 --> Don’t Leave a Good Time Looking for a Good Time <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Michael Bazzett (bio) </li> </ul> <p><span>is advice I received from a colleague</span><span>with an incongruous ponytail</span><span>who once gave his students a test</span><span>with only one problem: <em>Define Mathematics</em>.</span><span>He looked wistful as he relayed</span><span>their consternation and befuddlement</span><span>over a bowl of forlorn noodles</span><span>in the school cafeteria. When asked</span><span>how he’d respond, he shrugged</span><span>and said, “The search for patterns.”</span><span>“That’s nice,” I said, then repeated</span><span>the phrase, “The search for patterns.”</span><span>The admonishment to not leave</span><span>a good time looking for a good time</span><span>is also symmetrical, and thus hints</span><span>at an endless unfolding pattern</span><span>of wisely choosing stasis to conserve</span><span>what little happiness we encounter,</span><span>yet also begs the question of how</span><span>we might parse the nuance of times</span><span>that are good and those merely good</span><span>enough? This advice arrived not <strong>[End Page 1]</strong></span> <span>in the cafeteria, but over a little</span><span>whisky during an anecdote in which</span><span>he’d reached beneath his girlfriend’s</span><span>porch to pluck up the pink tail</span><span>of what he’d thought was a baby</span><span>snake yet was in reality a possum</span><span>swinging like a lantern in his grip.</span><span>“They have yellow needly teeth.</span><span>They smell like they’re inside out,”</span><span>he said, “They are not a good time.</span><span>And if I’d just stayed where I was,</span><span>I would not have been clutching</span><span>this hissing menace, which I flung</span><span>gently into the kudzu.” “Which is</span><span>when I knew,” interrupted his then-</span><span>girlfriend, now-wife, “That he was</span><span>the one.” As she spoke, he sipped</span><span>his drink, sat back, and played dead. <strong>[End Page 2]</strong></span></p> Michael Bazzett <p><strong>Michael Bazzett</strong> is the author of four books of poetry, most recently <em>The Echo Chamber</em> (Milkweed Editions 2021). His translation of the selected poems of Humberto Ak’abal, <em>If Today Were Tomorrow</em>, is forthcoming from Milkweed in 2024.</p> <p></p> Copyright © 2024 The University of the South ... </p>","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"38 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-02-08","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"139767489","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}
引用次数: 0
Soundings 声音
4区 文学
SEWANEE REVIEW Pub Date : 2024-02-08 DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a919142
Rachel Rinehart
{"title":"Soundings","authors":"Rachel Rinehart","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a919142","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a919142","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 --> Soundings <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Rachel Rinehart (bio) </li> </ul> <p><span>Suddenly, it is night</span><span>and the technician</span><span>is holding not a wand</span><span>but her leather marks</span><span>and plummet.</span></p> <p><span>Still, we see only static,</span><span>only mist roiling</span><span>over the horizon,</span><span>where maybe you are</span></p> <p><span>a soft light in shadows.</span><span>Row closer, my child,</span><span>let me kiss the slip of you,</span><span>your little body unmade</span><span>in its making.</span></p> <p><span>Let me put my lips</span><span>to the cooling coal</span><span>of your heart, let me light</span><span>your salt swept lamp. <strong>[End Page 102]</strong></span></p> <p><span>O least of mine,</span><span>let me bless you,</span><span>your skiff and your sail,</span><span>let me keep with you</span><span>this last flickering vigil—</span></p> <p><span>this hour before</span><span>the carpenter rouses</span><span>in the scud and swell</span><span>of fourth watch, steps off</span><span>the prow and bids me</span><span>come, have faith,</span></p> <p><span>and hand you on. <strong>[End Page 103]</strong></span></p> Rachel Rinehart <p><strong>Rachel Rinehart</strong>’s poetry collection <em>The Church in the Plains</em> was selected by Peter Everwine as the winner of the 2016 Philip Levine Poetry Prize and was published by Anhinga Press in 2018. She lives in Grayson, Kentucky, with her husband and children.</p> <p></p> Copyright © 2024 The University of the South ... </p>","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"31 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-02-08","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"139767404","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}
引用次数: 0
Homage to Richmond Barthé, and: Night Walk, and: After A Year Sober, and: Homage to Lyle Ashton Harris, and: To Sleep, and: The Age of Pleasure 向里士满-巴特致敬,以及夜行》和戒酒一年后》和向莱尔-阿什顿-哈里斯致敬,以及:致睡眠》和欢乐时代
4区 文学
SEWANEE REVIEW Pub Date : 2024-02-08 DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a919138
Derrick Austin
{"title":"Homage to Richmond Barthé, and: Night Walk, and: After A Year Sober, and: Homage to Lyle Ashton Harris, and: To Sleep, and: The Age of Pleasure","authors":"Derrick Austin","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a919138","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a919138","url":null,"abstract":"&lt;span&gt;&lt;span&gt;In lieu of&lt;/span&gt; an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:&lt;/span&gt;\u0000&lt;p&gt; &lt;ul&gt; &lt;li&gt;&lt;!-- html_title --&gt; &lt;em&gt;Homage to Richmond Barthé&lt;/em&gt;, and: &lt;em&gt;Night Walk&lt;/em&gt;, and: &lt;em&gt;After A Year Sober&lt;/em&gt;, and: &lt;em&gt;Homage to Lyle Ashton Harris&lt;/em&gt;, and: &lt;em&gt;To Sleep&lt;/em&gt;, and: &lt;em&gt;The Age of Pleasure&lt;/em&gt; &lt;!-- /html_title --&gt;&lt;/li&gt; &lt;li&gt; Derrick Austin (bio) &lt;/li&gt; &lt;/ul&gt; &lt;h2&gt;&lt;em&gt;Homage to Richmond Barthé&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/h2&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span&gt;If Barthé’s &lt;em&gt;Boy with a Flute&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;has completed his performance,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;eyes rising to meet the eyes&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; of the one who listened&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;seated in a flowering grove,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;then, perhaps, the viewer is invited to partake&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; of music and loose time.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;If, however, the boy has not begun playing&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;in the flowering grove,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;or has refused to begin, the song remains metaphysical&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;but turned inward, private,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; thus the viewer must attend&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;to the bronze fact of his attenuated body,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; where his heart would be.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span&gt;.......................&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span&gt;“Truly it is a great thing to know of the rich heritage&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;of this French-speaking nation&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;and to learn we are all brothers under the skin after all,”&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;Barthé said to a reporter in 1949,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;struggling with the Haitian president’s commission, &lt;strong&gt;[End Page 59]&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span&gt;heavy with his mother’s death,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;desolate and money-troubled.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span&gt;He hoped the muse would come courting&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;in a seersucker suit.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span&gt;He wrote letters weekly&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; (Chicago, New York City, New Orleans)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;inviting friends to sip a Campari spritz&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;in his ramshackle estate&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;named Iolaus, after the gay anthology, a wink and prayer.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span&gt;.......................&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span&gt;The humidity addles my mind like gin.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; Smoking a blunt,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;shells and glass crackling underfoot,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; I encounter a leg,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span&gt;not human or beast—not beast anymore&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; divorced from its body: a hoof&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;hooded with mange. Like the eucharist,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; the leg represents nothing but itself.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span&gt;Barthé appears beside a deer&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; eating the sea grapes meant for jelly jars.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;When I offer him a hit, he refuses.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; When I offer my hand, he smiles and refuses.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span&gt;The red mangrove he points to speaks&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; like a minor prophet: My leaves glow with salt, &lt;strong&gt;[End Page 60]&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span&gt;a fire that scalds but leaves me whole,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; a fire that does not warm nor console.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span&gt;Perhaps, loneliness merely banks the flame&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; where we can gather ourselves and each other.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;I exhale smoke. I feel light.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; Barthé steps and returns to the night. &lt;strong&gt;[End Page 61]&lt;","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"10 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-02-08","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"139767486","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}
引用次数: 0
404 404
4区 文学
SEWANEE REVIEW Pub Date : 2024-02-08 DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a919132
Peter Kispert
{"title":"404","authors":"Peter Kispert","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a919132","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a919132","url":null,"abstract":"&lt;span&gt;&lt;span&gt;In lieu of&lt;/span&gt; an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:&lt;/span&gt;\u0000&lt;p&gt; &lt;ul&gt; &lt;li&gt;&lt;!-- html_title --&gt; 404 &lt;!-- /html_title --&gt;&lt;/li&gt; &lt;li&gt; Peter Kispert (bio) &lt;/li&gt; &lt;/ul&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;C&lt;/strong&gt;harles was getting better—healing I mean, after last year had tortured us both—and it was completely ruining the plan. For the better part of two years, we spent sleepless nights in small single-floor sublets in and around Boston, living among broken ovens and cheap white fridges that shook themselves awake and groaned, always awoken by the sound of traffic outside the window, never staying for longer than a few months. I tried on stupid aliases every now and again to make it seem like this was all a joke. Maybe we did have more options than siphoning funds from whoever fell for our shit. Like any idiots in their late twenties, we flirted with our own exposure: just weeks ago a young delivery man in Jamaica Plain saw me suppress a laugh at the utterance of my own “name”; &lt;em&gt;Richard Balls&lt;/em&gt; is one you have to practice saying without cracking up. But I wasn’t looking at this man’s reaction; I was watching Charles stifle a smile. Somewhere during these past months I’d lost the ability to make him laugh, and found myself savoring the feeling, swept back to our first nights together. That bone-cold winter, warmed only by each other’s bodies. &lt;strong&gt;[End Page 3]&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;Now it was almost June, and we were in a new place near the Bay—a green marble kitchen island, among other upgrades—thanks to a man named Daryl who donated several thousand to “unlock” his long-lost sister’s fortune. (“What does that even mean?” Charles had asked me as I read him Daryl’s reply one night. “I don’t know,” I’d said. “But he’s buying it.”) For a while I was getting lucky in my emails with what I called the grandmother sweet-spot: comic sans, size fourteen font, spacing a little off, some purple type in there, asking for just a little help—and &lt;em&gt;then&lt;/em&gt; the link. You send that to two hundred John Smiths and wait for someone to bite, some idiot to just give themselves up for chivalry. &lt;em&gt;That’s what you get for having a normal name&lt;/em&gt;, I’d think as the first bouncebacks hit. We assumed, of course, that a normal name also meant a normal life, which also meant comfort, stability, the things Charles and I could do without. Like gilled fish that thrive even out of water, we imagined we were unique to a point of freakishness, normal only with each other. I’d forgotten that was what I preferred, and now I was too good at this: six grand on a Tuesday afternoon while I licked the lid of a pudding cup. A résumé of petty thefts and two DUIs, a rescinded college admission: you get something like that early enough, the future just seals up. These hours together were our cheat code to another life, or had been until the past few weeks, when Charles started getting himself together as we packed boxes, ready to ditch the mold and nail-studded floors for good. He w","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"36 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-02-08","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"139910868","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}
引用次数: 0
Good Grief: On The 2023 Booker Prize 悲痛欲绝关于 2023 年布克奖
4区 文学
SEWANEE REVIEW Pub Date : 2024-02-08 DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a919143
Ryan Chapman
{"title":"Good Grief: On The 2023 Booker Prize","authors":"Ryan Chapman","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a919143","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a919143","url":null,"abstract":"&lt;span&gt;&lt;span&gt;In lieu of&lt;/span&gt; an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:&lt;/span&gt;\u0000&lt;p&gt; &lt;ul&gt; &lt;li&gt;&lt;!-- html_title --&gt; Good Grief: &lt;span&gt;On The 2023 Booker Prize&lt;/span&gt; &lt;!-- /html_title --&gt;&lt;/li&gt; &lt;li&gt; Ryan Chapman (bio) &lt;/li&gt; &lt;/ul&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;A&lt;/strong&gt; week after the 2022 Booker Prize award ceremony, Rishi Sunak became the first British Indian to be appointed Prime Minister. He was the third PM in as many months. This milestone received a shrugged acknowledgement from my Sri Lankan uncles back in Minnesota, whose enthusiasm for a statesman from the subcontinent was tempered by the Conservative Party’s hot streak of self-owns. For my part, I took umbrage at Sunak’s CV: Americans know that marrying an heiress (John Kerry, John McCain) and skipping through the Goldman-to-government turnstile (Hank Paulson, Steve Mnuchin) is &lt;em&gt;our&lt;/em&gt; thing.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;Two months later, his boss’s youngest son Harry released a ghostwritten tell-all, breaking sales records for a memoir. It became the fastest-selling nonfiction title in the United Kingdom, and globally moved three million units in its first week alone. For comparison, only two Booker winners have scaled such capitalist heights: Hilary Mantel’s &lt;em&gt;Wolf Hall&lt;/em&gt; and Yann Martel’s &lt;em&gt;Life of Pi&lt;/em&gt;.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;And then in May, Harry’s dad finally got that callback. The coronation of King Charles III cost an estimated 100 million dollars—four &lt;strong&gt;[End Page 104]&lt;/strong&gt; times his mum’s, even adjusted for inflation—with a guest list that included surprise monarchists like Nick Cave and Katy Perry. The peaked septuagenarian cosplayed himself into parody earnestly and glacially. Unfortunately, we never got Martin Amis’s take on the whole boondoggle: the writer passed away on May 19 and was knighted by the new king a month later. (Since posthumous knighthoods are verboten, Charles backdated Amis’s to May 18.) Amis would have appreciated being honored by the very man with whom he argued the 1989 fatwa against his friend Salman Rushdie; Charles did not rush to Sir Salman’s defense.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;Last year’s Booker went to Shehan Karunatilaka for &lt;em&gt;The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida&lt;/em&gt;. Karunatilaka is the second Sri Lankan recipient, following Michael Ondaatje who won for &lt;em&gt;The English Patient&lt;/em&gt; in 1992. (Even then, Ondaatje was named cowinner with Barry Unsworth, the author of &lt;em&gt;Sacred Hunger&lt;/em&gt;.) Ondaatje’s novel is still beautiful and affecting. As is &lt;em&gt;Anil’s Ghost&lt;/em&gt;, his consideration of the Sri Lankan civil war, which shares a setting with &lt;em&gt;Maali Almeida&lt;/em&gt; and none of its tone. Karunatilaka’s win was heartening, and his globe-trotting press tour highly entertaining. The man gives good copy, both figuratively and literally—like Rushdie, he once worked in advertising. Tara K. Menon wrote in these pages that 2022 was a rare instance of the best shortlisted book winning the prize, a fact supported by anyone familiar with its history. &lt;em&gt;Possession&lt;/em&gt;’s A. S. Byatt said, “I’ve won it an","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"13 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-02-08","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"139767479","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}
引用次数: 0
Before the DMZ, and: Faint 在非军事区之前微弱
4区 文学
SEWANEE REVIEW Pub Date : 2024-02-08 DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a919136
Cindy Juyoung Ok
{"title":"Before the DMZ, and: Faint","authors":"Cindy Juyoung Ok","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a919136","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a919136","url":null,"abstract":"&lt;span&gt;&lt;span&gt;In lieu of&lt;/span&gt; an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:&lt;/span&gt;\u0000&lt;p&gt; &lt;ul&gt; &lt;li&gt;&lt;!-- html_title --&gt; &lt;em&gt;Before the DMZ&lt;/em&gt;, and: &lt;em&gt;Faint&lt;/em&gt; &lt;!-- /html_title --&gt;&lt;/li&gt; &lt;li&gt; Cindy Juyoung Ok (bio) &lt;/li&gt; &lt;/ul&gt; &lt;h2&gt;&lt;em&gt;Before the DMZ&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/h2&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span&gt; My&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; moth-&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; er sent&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; a photo of&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; the federal build-&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; ing she was&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; being naturalized in,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; writing, &lt;em&gt;Boring I&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; &lt;em&gt;love you&lt;/em&gt;. That winter&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; her father revealed he left&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; behind a first wife, two kids, north&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; before the war, the news unremarkable&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; because &lt;em&gt;For us, everybody had somebody they—&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;&lt;em&gt; &lt;/em&gt; So my mother hired an investigator; visited&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; because, newly American, she could. She flew&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; south after, and at her photos, he pointed at&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span&gt;the 67-year-old he had last known at seven.&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span&gt;Said, &lt;em&gt;She was smart. She was really smart&lt;/em&gt;.&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span&gt;Within a year he lost his memory to&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; stroke. He cried when they&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; tied him so he could not&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; pull his tubes out and&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; my mother had only seen&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; him cry when the special ran&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; on public broadcast. Ten thou-&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; sand families reunited while every-&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; one watched. Doesn’t anyone k-&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; now this person? Live calls, arti- Gen-&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;facts, tears—she watched erally no&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; him watch. one recalled where&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; they had been separated.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; But a ripped hem, or rules&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; of a childhood game, that big&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; mole. A port of waiting. I al-&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; ways wanted to hate binary&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; but I grew up here where the&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; cure to forgetting a stubborn&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; chorus is doing simple arithmetic. Her&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; trip north was strange, formal—&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; delicate words, doubtful gestures.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; She noticed the brother had pso-&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; riasis on his knuckles and hid her&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; laughter in a corner, her scars proof&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; of genes that had skipped the one&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; brother she knew. The countries&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; are linked by land—mostly, I know,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; by an area covered in stone. I ima-&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; gine jade-colored water between&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; them, a wide, boring o-&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; cean on the thirty-&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; eighth&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; parallel. &lt;strong&gt;[End Page 55]&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;h2&gt;&lt;em&gt;Faint&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/h2&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span&gt;Vagueness tends to criminalize&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;and of few available alternatives&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;my favorite is the dream of the same&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span&gt;room. Pick your noise, in wells&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;or against walls. In the light&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span&gt;of the microwave clock, under advice&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;of long symbols, showily I become&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span&gt;my own guest (in mother words,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;a duty). Oxygen a calm oddity&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;everywhere b","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"15 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-02-08","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"139773518","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}
引用次数: 0
Anachronisms 不合时宜
4区 文学
SEWANEE REVIEW Pub Date : 2024-02-08 DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a919139
Olivia Nathan
{"title":"Anachronisms","authors":"Olivia Nathan","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a919139","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a919139","url":null,"abstract":"&lt;span&gt;&lt;span&gt;In lieu of&lt;/span&gt; an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:&lt;/span&gt;\u0000&lt;p&gt; &lt;ul&gt; &lt;li&gt;&lt;!-- html_title --&gt; Anachronisms &lt;!-- /html_title --&gt;&lt;/li&gt; &lt;li&gt; Olivia Nathan (bio) &lt;/li&gt; &lt;/ul&gt; &lt;h2&gt;&lt;em&gt;1&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/h2&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;T&lt;/strong&gt;he night before her history test, T’s legs turned into lightbulbs.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;Hoot, the family Pomeranian, had been sitting beneath her desk, and T accidentally kicked him as she crossed her legs. In a show of defiance, he left her room and trotted downstairs. T didn’t notice. She forgot the new purplish pimple forming like a grape on her forehead; she forgot the allotted forty minutes of TV she’d been dying to watch; she even forgot to look up at her face smeared in the window beside her desk to contemplate her crush kissing it, though the ache of that longing never left her. As she slipped into bed, each flash card she’d studied after dinner was still moving behind her eyes. Her mind had been consumed by the details of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire. It was as if the fire itself had invaded her mind and left it razed and scorched.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;Doing better in history was high on T’s list of New Year’s resolutions. It was near the top of a list her parents oversaw, regularly &lt;strong&gt;[End Page 71]&lt;/strong&gt; reminding her to practice clarinet every day and to make more lists. They had thwacked the list to the fridge with a magnet that said &lt;small&gt;queen of fucking everything&lt;/small&gt; that Queenie, T’s older sister, had left at home when she moved to college. T thought of it as the only remnant of Queenie left in the house. The pink bedroom, which sat empty across from hers, did not recall her sister’s dry and crass sense of humor, nor did the trio of Hello Kitty clocks tocking on her wall.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;So T had no choice but to get a B+ or A- on the test. Her parents couldn’t understand why she wasn’t already getting B+s or A-s, given T loved the subject.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;“We don’t understand why you’re not getting B+s or A-s,” they said. “You love history.”&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;This was true. T had spent the month of July on her laptop, watching a lecture series called &lt;em&gt;The History and Mystery of Venetian Watermarks&lt;/em&gt; from The Great Courses. (She looked up what water-marks were and then she Googled what Italian iconography meant.) She was quickly consumed by the eight-part lecture series, given by a surprisingly handsome, long-haired professor.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;Many of the Venetian watermarks looked like horse brandings or ancient family crests; but one, dated as early as 1500, looked like a lightbulb—a watery lightbulb pressed into the middle of the page, crushing the fibers of parchment to allow light to stream through. T had watched the watermark illuminated by candlelight in the reenactment; it shone through where the paper thinned down its curves. How did sixteenth-century Italians know what a lightbulb would look like? There were even undulating lines in the water-mark signifying the metal foot and both sides of the bulb were chubby-cheeked.&lt;/p&gt;","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"25 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-02-08","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"139767487","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}
引用次数: 0
Nowhere Spaces 无处空间
4区 文学
SEWANEE REVIEW Pub Date : 2024-02-08 DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a919145
Holly Goddard Jones
{"title":"Nowhere Spaces","authors":"Holly Goddard Jones","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a919145","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a919145","url":null,"abstract":"&lt;span&gt;&lt;span&gt;In lieu of&lt;/span&gt; an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:&lt;/span&gt;\u0000&lt;p&gt; &lt;ul&gt; &lt;li&gt;&lt;!-- html_title --&gt; Nowhere Spaces &lt;!-- /html_title --&gt;&lt;/li&gt; &lt;li&gt; Holly Goddard Jones (bio) &lt;/li&gt; &lt;/ul&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;O&lt;/strong&gt;ver COVID lockdown, my kids and I got into the habit of watching fantasy cartoons each night before bed. One of our favorites was &lt;em&gt;Hilda&lt;/em&gt;, a Netflix series inspired by an also-excellent graphic novel series by Luke Pearson. There’s a lot to love about &lt;em&gt;Hilda&lt;/em&gt;, which tells the story of the titular character, a little girl who lives a typical modern child’s existence of school and scouts and growing up in a single-parent household—in a reality that happens to be juxtaposed against high-fantasy elements inspired by Scandinavian folklore. Hilda’s universe, and its populous cast of magical characters, is far too ornate to explain here, but as I began contemplating the topic of negative space in fiction, I found myself picturing some creatures from the series, the Nisse. In Pearson’s interpretation, Nisse are house trolls that occupy forgotten areas of the home called “The Nowhere Space”—pocket dimensions, unused and mostly unnoticed by humans, where the Nisse can live, and where they store the items that humans have misplaced or neglected to the point of forfeiture. A Nisse can also &lt;strong&gt;[End Page 130]&lt;/strong&gt; use the Nowhere Space to interdimensionally travel—by entering an opening that’s tucked away behind a heavy bookcase, for example, one can exit from underneath a sofa in another house, or in the crack between the refrigerator and wall in still another.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;It occurs to me that one reason Hilda’s version of the Nisse so compels me is that the Nowhere Space reminds me of one of my most frequent recurring dreams, a dream that I’ve learned is extremely common: the hidden-room dream. In it, you’re home—or, sometimes for me, in a house I just agreed to purchase—and you realize that your house has extra, unused square footage. I can guess what dream interpretation websites would say about the meaning of the hidden room: that you’re plumbing undiscovered aspects of yourself, something about the subconscious, blah blah blah, but what I always feel, in these dreams, is a simultaneous sense of freedom, possibility, and stupidity. I start thinking of all the things I’ll be able to do with this found space, and I start wondering how I could have been so oblivious as to have missed its existence all along.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;As I have gotten to be an older and more seasoned writer, I’ve experienced a similar set of emotions as I’ve contemplated the extra rooms or Nowhere Spaces within my own prose. I’ve realized just how much of a story gets told off the page. Now, this obviously isn’t some new or surprising insight. We have a whole host of cliches at the ready to address the Nowhere Spaces in literature: we talk about reading “between the lines,” we scrutinize what occurs “in the white space,” and we analyze, as readers, “sub","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"6 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-02-08","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"139767507","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}
引用次数: 0
First Wife 第一任妻子
4区 文学
SEWANEE REVIEW Pub Date : 2024-02-08 DOI: 10.1353/sew.2024.a919141
Madeline Cash
{"title":"First Wife","authors":"Madeline Cash","doi":"10.1353/sew.2024.a919141","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sew.2024.a919141","url":null,"abstract":"&lt;span&gt;&lt;span&gt;In lieu of&lt;/span&gt; an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:&lt;/span&gt;\u0000&lt;p&gt; &lt;ul&gt; &lt;li&gt;&lt;!-- html_title --&gt; First Wife &lt;!-- /html_title --&gt;&lt;/li&gt; &lt;li&gt; Madeline Cash (bio) &lt;/li&gt; &lt;/ul&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;B&lt;/strong&gt;ud took four Seconal, masturbated into a tea towel, and decided to drive the Subaru into the sea. The passenger seat was piled with empty take-out containers. Looking over the discarded items, Bud felt like one himself. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the rearview mirror, the face of a man who hadn’t been cool for several presidential administrations. Who had contemplated but ultimately rejected three different ironic tattoos, and who, having nothing left to lose, was free—free according to the logic of Descartes, or was it Janis Joplin, he couldn’t remember.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;Bud didn’t like talk radio. It felt like eavesdropping on someone’s conversation. He did not care for esoteric polemics on gender or local politics or dog breeding. Although, admittedly, he did enjoy those true-crime specials about women in peril and falsely accused teenagers serving life sentences. When told well, thought Bud, a good story is like good cocaine; it has you eager for the next line. He briefly searched for a station that played the classics. What he really wanted to hear was a song that went like &lt;em&gt;blinded by the light&lt;/em&gt;, &lt;strong&gt;[End Page 95]&lt;/strong&gt; &lt;em&gt;something something something in the middle of the night&lt;/em&gt;. But, despite his forceful prodding at the touch screen, he could not access the car’s Bluetooth.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;“Hit &lt;em&gt;pair with device&lt;/em&gt;.” The sitter, Hannah &lt;em&gt;Something&lt;/em&gt;, was at the window. In the haze of barbiturates, Bud could not remember her name.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;“You snuck up on me,” said Bud.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;“I’ve been standing here for, like, a minute and a half,” said Hannah Something.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;“Can I help you?”&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;“Mrs. Casey said you’d drive me home.”&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;Hannah thought Bud Casey had an ineffable charisma. He was the kind of dad who might take you to rock concerts instead of ball games, who might look the other way when you pilfer a beer because he’d rather you do it in the house. She found him charming, rugged, perhaps a little dangerous. Bud did not share this opinion of Hannah. He much preferred the other sitter, Fiona Rappaport, who possessed the effortless beauty of an off-duty runway model, while Hannah was perennially covered in a layer of adolescent grease. Whenever he dropped off Fiona, Bud took the longer route to her house, pointing out some architectural feature or other, his breath mingling with Fiona’s in the confined space. Bud also did not care for Hannah Something at this moment because she was preventing him from driving into the sea.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;Hannah tossed most of the take-out containers into the back-seat and then drummed her fingers on the dash. What should they talk about? His child, that was a subject of inexhaustible interest. So inquisitive, always asking things like, &lt;em&gt;Where’s my dad? Why isn’t Dad sl","PeriodicalId":43824,"journal":{"name":"SEWANEE REVIEW","volume":"7 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-02-08","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"139773497","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}
引用次数: 0
0
×
引用
GB/T 7714-2015
复制
MLA
复制
APA
复制
导出至
BibTeX EndNote RefMan NoteFirst NoteExpress
×
提示
您的信息不完整,为了账户安全,请先补充。
现在去补充
×
提示
您因"违规操作"
具体请查看互助需知
我知道了
×
提示
确定
请完成安全验证×
相关产品
×
本文献相关产品
联系我们:info@booksci.cn Book学术提供免费学术资源搜索服务,方便国内外学者检索中英文文献。致力于提供最便捷和优质的服务体验。 Copyright © 2023 布克学术 All rights reserved.
京ICP备2023020795号-1
ghs 京公网安备 11010802042870号
Book学术文献互助
Book学术文献互助群
群 号:481959085
Book学术官方微信