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Re:AL Regarding Arts & Letters

volume 40 issue number2

Spring & Summer 2017


re:al

regarding arts & letters {vol. 40, no. 2} Spring/Summer 2017

Editor in Chief Michael Sheehan Guest Poetry Editor Sara Henning Managing Editor Audrey Granger Perry Consulting Editors John A. McDermott Andrew Brininstool Readers Lauren Bush, Josh Hines, Sarah Johnson, Karen Perkins, Lauren Reagan, Emily Townsend Special thanks to Lauren Bush and Emily Townsend for their help on the portfolio. Views expressed in RE:AL do not neccessarily reflect those of the administration or the Board of Regents of Stephen F. Austin.

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Contents Poetry Josh Kalscheur Dietary Restrictions 22 So You Can Stay 23 Blank Pictures 24 Dogs 26 Weird Door 28 Fiction N.T. Arévalo We Such Apostles of Mercy 8 H.E. Francis Faye 60 Douglas Penick Anguish of Rule 88 Essay J.A. Bernstein On Winning 40 Mika Taylor

Erasure All The Punctuation in Ulysses

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RE:sist A Portfolio of Poetry Curated by Sara Henning Ruth Foley Poem After the End of the World 108 Poem After the End of the World 109 Poem After the End of the World 110 Poem After the End of the World 111 Daniel Shapiro “Dr. Manhattan? More Like Dr. Staten Island!” 112 “Spider-Man’s Got Sticky Coming Out of Wherever” 113 Sarah Chavez Dear Carole, I’ve Been Meditating on Transgression 114 In This New Age 116 Lee Ann Roripaugh #notesonsexualharrassment #stringofbeads 118 Fox Frazier-Foley The Last Time I Got Tattooed... 120 Danielle Sellers The Exhibitionist 124 Nous Sommes in a Texas Parking Lot 125 The Germany Poems 126 4

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Rodney Gomez The Truest Fiction is Fiction 130 While Walking the Market, I Kiss the Bullet 132 Arden Levine Unsettle/Dissolve 133 Steven Sanchez Impact 135 Predator 136 Asphyxia 138 Stephanie Dugger Bullet 140 Faithful 142 Judi Rypma Playing Battleship 144 Alyse Bensel Float Trip 146 Erin Elizabeth Smith Sansa to Snow White 147 Les Kay Self Portrait as Resistant Subject 148 Teaching Philosophy 149 Jim Warner & Beth Gilstrap Revelations 19 150 Dischord No. 8 151 Rachel Mennies Still Life with Burned Mouth 152 Heidi Czerwiec Pace 154 Jordi Alonso Royal Fern (Osmunda regalis) 157 Jenny Yang Cropp Usage Error: Deep-seeded 158 Usage Error: Broomweed 159 Grace Bauer Lament 160 Be/attidude 162 Art John Bent Fence front cover Abandoned Home 1 back cover Bad Years 3 Born Into This 83 Born Into This 2 139 Soul 156 Lu Mogosanu Trilobite 34-5 Vespulagermanica 36-7 Species 38-9 Contributors’ Bios 164 regarding arts & letters

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We Such Apostles of Mercy

N.T. ArÉvalo

I arrive with a regulation carry-on—Rick Steves’s recommended backpack to keep travel stress free, light—and a leftover egg salad sandwich the airline gave me but I’ve no plans to eat. I drove all day from Medford, Mass. to Newark to save $400 on an international flight and am just starting to realize that the parking charges might split the difference in the end. “Welcome, welcome – come in,” the host says in the language of those lessons I crammed on my way down I-93 to I-95 to Newark International. It’s a language I’m trying hard not to forget. “Thank you, thank you,” I mirror, shuffling through the door. “Nice bag,” he says, offering to carry it the rest of the way, which my jet lagged self welcomes. He’s dressed in a sweater with a large keffiyeh scarf covering everything below his chin. His hair is coiffed in

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a black wave over his forehead. He points me to the most austere room at the far end of the dim hall, the one I signed on for—carpenter’s shelves, a shit of a pillow, and a nonabsorbent towel I recognize from an IKEA purchase I made years ago. I notice a room with a window just across the way but am too tired to haggle. I see stacks of Communist literature and realize that the shape of my room is no accident. I ask to take a picture and he stands stoic, his back to the dark hall, with a smile between his shoulders. Jet lag convinces me to spend the next twenty minutes using the iPhone to video the room and take Before and After shots of the shelves with my things. She’s not here; she’s here. She’s not here—she’s here! I join my host in the kitchen and he shares his tea. He switches off a cackling radio. In our first conversation, I learn that he knows five languages. I know one and a half. And even the primary one I understand less than he, who corrects my grammar. I let this be a piece of my enchantment with this continent—it’s already living up to be the other world I was looking for. He also knows every American book, film, political movement, and web portal I’ve ever heard of and rattles them off like he’s been stockpiling this conversation, hungry and awaiting any compatriots’ arrival. He tells me right off the bat that he doesn’t care about Angelina. It takes me awhile to understand who he’s talking about. “Mostly, I’m so sick of hearing about her U.N. work—so what,” he says. My host believes it serves as cover for rich celebrity guilt and swings his arms in circles from his elbow as a kind of shrug I’ve never seen before. I laugh to commiserate with his media fatigue, the overexposure sickness of our age, and feel like I am making a new friend. I apologize and mumble something in her defense, like how maybe she’s

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Arévalo trying to change the subject or spotlight. My host then starts to reference Rambo as if he’s alive, in the kitchen, and as beloved (or known) by Americans today as John Wayne. Or Beyonce. Or anything made by Apple. He lives in this apartment home with his parents and everyone gets a wing. During long afternoon breaks, he plays one of the two pianos and its keys echo through the large halls. It stretches with the mid-afternoon glow into a medley of camptown songs and concertos. I smile to myself as I lay in my room, exhausted but glad I’ve come this far. I switch off the cell—it’s near midnight in Medford and the public defender’s, my, office is shutting down for the weekend. One of the first things he says the next morning is What’s your problem with 9/11 and are you all so privileged, so unaccustomed to aggression, that you’ve got to punish the world? Blink twice to sort out whether it’s day or night, rhetorical play or courtroom memories. Hold a match to light the stove. His question is partly accusation, partly existential, partly right. Regardless, your father would have slammed down his fork already. But you know that your host is saying so what and what you think he’s trying to say is what everybody else has already tried to say: You should have cooperated. He pulls out your chair—“Join me, join me,” he says, gesturing to the space he’s saved at the table. Go ahead and eat your eggs. Look around the kitchen: a real medieval stove sits behind him with a washing basin and a series of teakettles. The handle on the fridge is broken but you don’t ask and he doesn’t explain. He’s got notebooks spread out before him, some with sheet music and some just blank. He grabs dishes from a cabinet you can’t make out from your angle and talks about the past and present, like they’re an eternal state. The winter sun is moving from his side of the table to yours, which is great because

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We Such Apostles of Mercy you can’t really tell if the heat’s working. Stay in the glow of Being There, in a new country, in a real discussion that’s not a mess of Sox standings or the derision, pop culture references, or what Twitter said today. Nor the organized madness of the backlog of your city’s legal system. Drop your obsession with fairness—you are on vacation, after all!—and keep up the kitchen table camaraderie, build a friendship. Have some fun. Tease. Ask with a flirt of a smile: “So you want to fight terrorists?” “Well,” he begins in one breath and in another, shaking his head at his tea, “you should have killed Saddam the first time.” Later, he says: “We protest here peacefully—like women or civilized men.” Your laugh sends egg shooting across the table and you and your host clean up, together. Take your bag through the dim hall but forget to throw away that sandwich. Spend the rest of the day at the market. Fall in love with produce and spiced Lebanese meat pies that fit in one hand, from street stands. Buy only what you need for that day—ask nothing more; leave no trace, the best travelers say. Church bells go off on the hour. Gawk at buildings that bring you closer to the age of man, to understanding how it used to be. To seeing history, which is what your continent scrambles away from the most, as if its misery isn’t shared. As if it is just passé. Take pictures, to remember. Visit like it’s right out of a fairy tale. Visit like it can make you feel safe. Return at the late dinner hour, following the scent of saffron from a local delicacy and a sweet red wine. Find your host waiting to share a good meal in the kitchen. Go on and on about all the buildings you’ve seen, the museum sights and trinkets you’ve collected from his country. Show him some

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Arévalo of the pictures. When it’s your host’s turn to speak, he hands you a glass of wine and picks up right where he left off in the morning. “—and there used to be trains all over the country in the United States. Oil got rid of trains. Now, in the United States everyone has a car and that’s why they messed with other countries, for that oil. Petrol.” Try to intervene, to keep playing—Don’t your cars run on oil, you tease in your mind, you say with your eyes. But cleverness and tongue are on a time delay. “In the United States, everyone has detached homes. And more petrol, of course! And everybody takes planes, planes, everywhere. And in the United States, they—“ He’s speaking in third person, as if your country’s been narrated from afar all along and not been the narrator. Which is the truth about power by default, you realize. In exchange for power—or attention or celebrity or some semblance of being declared the winner—your real story can’t be told by you. You are too unreliable, with far too many blindsides, and even a court transcript, filed away, can’t do it justice. Pleading the Fifth or ranting confessions are of no avail. Only the judges’ stamp on the who, the what, the now what will stand. Anyway, it’s not your story anymore and pretty soon, no one wants to hear it anyway. They wouldn’t believe you if you tried; the whole truth far from your grasp. Though it is also true that most everyone you know rides the T and lives squeezed in a duplex. “Where are you from,” your host stops to ask, since PayPal only uses currency, not residency, to establish these kinds of transactions and perpetuate the miracle of your travel! You should say Boston but the wine in your ears thinks he asked where did you come from. The best your fuzzy mind can put together is the plane: “Newark. International.”

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We Such Apostles of Mercy He looks at you strange and replaces the cork in the wine. Stay with the discussion. Sit taller, smile. Don’t go for your phone! Stroke the kitchen table and help put the dishes away. He’ll go on, this time with jokes about in the United States but trade in your regularly scheduled defensive role—you are on vacation!—for a belief in accountability via nonchalance this weekend. It’s your turn to listen and your job to lighten the mood, get the distance you were looking for. Stay detached from life in the United States. More than anything you just want to be in a someplace new. Whatever you left behind is for that side of the ocean. Remember your mission for a weekend of freedom: Over there, as the song goes. The weather’s warmed but your sleep has yet to settle. It’s winter—the only time and weekend you could afford— so, of course, a cold attaches itself to you. It doesn’t help that guilt is triggered as you lay there alone while your host city has a boisterous Saturday night. You turn back on your phone to message after message: “Fanny, we need the Southie Hollister file here . . . Fanny, when will the JP shit be done . . . Did you hear about Annalee Watkins’ kids? You’re going to want to get back here.“ You stay up most the night. When daylight comes, it stings the eyes. When the piano playing begins, your head throbs. You’ve no energy for the market, to pull from your brain words that you only know secondhand, and, like anything secondhand, the smoke and energy’s thinner, making no sense to the cashiers. When the playing stops, you wander down the dim hall and stumble into the kitchen in search of hot tea. The radio’s on and sits at his elbow. “Good afternoon.” “Good afternoon. Excuse me. I’m not well.”

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Arévalo “Ah, no! Have some tea?” He reaches into the cabinet for the tea box. He lights the stove and finds a clean kettle in the stack at the back of the table. “I was checking my email all night.” He shakes his head. You wait for him to say in the United States everybody works too much but, kindly, he doesn’t. Smile and settle into your chair, folding one leg over the other. He lifts his finger for a moment and runs down the hall to the bathroom, returning with a stack of tissues. You smile as he pats your back before he returns to the whistling kettle. He asks if he should turn down the radio. Say “of course not” and catch one out of four words in his reply but it’s a gift akin to silence, this not knowing. You like feeling lost in a way that can be excused; it’s better than the lost you will disguise in your calls back home. It is accepted, allowed here and your shoulder release. He brings you a plate of lemon slices and the pleasant surprise of a bowl of soup. This is why you came, this is why things will be better! One of your nostrils starts to clear. He dips the tea bag into your empty cup and reaches for the boiling water in the old family kettle. As he pours it: “In the United States, they take so many pills. For every little thing, no? That’s why they’re always sick. The sickest people on the planet!” Nod. Ask about the discussion on the radio that’s now become heated. The region you’re visiting is seeking independence or increased autonomy but “— not revolution,” your host swears. “Not violence.” He’s a pacifist and ready to see warfare end. “So what,” he says about being a pacifist and you laugh back: “So what?” It is quiet a long minute. The gritty static between

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We Such Apostles of Mercy phonetics you reach for, to connect into words and ideas, are said with a fervor that you catch but with a meaning you just can’t. “Not like the United States,” he goes on after this quiet minute. “We don’t wage war—“ “Yes, yes,” you say, sipping, but he continues. “Do you know the real reason why they had to end the Vietnam War?” He is sitting, in fact, with a closeted history major! This could be the kind of conversation Rick Steves prepared you for. With snot running down your nose, you recount what happened in your country, in Vietnam, why it took so long, and include dates and names and official battles and unofficial treaties and philosophers of the time, to keep up your end of the intellectual, table chat bargain. You stop with the soup, so in a congested voice, you can explain. Your host isn’t listening. He looks everywhere but your eyes as his chin builds up a response. At this point, partly out of exhaustion but mostly to fulfill your curiosity, you hope he’ll tell you why. Trust the narrator, the host implicitly. Not because his stories are fairy tales but because you’re starting to feel the distance you wanted from over there all along. “Black soldiers shot their commanders,” he claims. Your host demonstrates with an invisible AK-47 that he darts around the kitchen. Tea kettle, blast. Sink spigot, ka-pow! Tea sipper, bam! The innocent bystanders of drying dishes and broken refrigerator handles crumble from friendly fire. He reaches over to close the cabinet. Hindsight with your new friend is not going to be 20/20 but the magnified bad parts. It is then that you start telling yourself that your host has never been to the United States and go from accountable to diplomatic. Nod. Ignore the buzzing of your phone. Try to extend his version of the story before he interrupts and

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Arévalo repeats, like a little boy no one will listen to: “They would’ve killed all the commanders!” Wonder if there was a Rambo movie you missed. Your host references books written by Americans that can prove his point, since now you’ve stopped drinking the tea and he senses doubt rise above the steam. Chomsky is cited. The table’s starting to look less and less like a kitchen table and more and more like a family’s slate to air grievances and invisible claims and though the words are different, the tone is all too familiar. The distance you sensed, the one you needed from your country, shrinks. “Yes, yes,” you nod, “Of course.” You think you live in a Berkeley of the Mind but will end this conversation defending Bush. “‘When you’re asked to join a war that’s over nothing, it’s best to join the side that’s going to win,’” he mumbles, dumping the rest of the water from the kettle. “What,” you say, back to sipping your tea, raising your eyebrows over the cup’s rim. The cup quivers at your lip. “Nothing,” he says. The voices from the radio continue in pitches that dip from bass to mid-range before your host decides to jump back in. “Because it was Bush,” he says in a voice rising to outdo the radio, “that ruined our environment. That crazy cowboy—” Don’t try to explain that he isn’t really a cowboy. Soon, somehow, he stumps you, takes a lateral back to the entertainment industry. “And Tarantino and Scorsese”—people trying only to entertain him, something in you begs to say—“are so violent, so detached from consequence I cannot watch anymore.” His argument grows in such eloquence that you must agree. Let complicity sink in. Let it sit at the top of the well of things from Medford that you carry with you—far, far down but bubbling. Like the screeners at Logan that let them

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We Such Apostles of Mercy through. Like that one client you started to second guess before they asked you to take leave—at least this weekend. Your host explains the collusion of hate in the United States, as if there aren’t tens of millions of Muslims in the U.S. alone, loads in the Boston area, as we all know, and why do you know this, why do you count? Why are you saying it like that? He’s calling us out as only happy trigger fingers, riches, and abusers of petrol for comfort in big, big homes and boulevards, so we can have big, big cars until our tired hearts and feet moan and your tired head screams and wonders: when will this story be passed on to a more goddamned benevolent narrator? One whose education and home isn’t all paid for, says the devil or the angel in your mind. You cannot tell anymore. This grown man who can get around basically free to see another side, another country, anytime he wants, but chooses to stay here, bring us to him, and harp and harp and harp? You need a narrator who sees and lets speak, breathe all sides, to show we co-exist as one—peace and harmony on the page, even if an illusion—allowing us a goddamned fair hearing. And then he starts with Bush and the drones. And Bush with the drones. And Bush with the drones. and this is when you have to stop the conversation. This is when I take over the narration and can’t wait any longer to be heard, to set the record straight, if they, their continent, is to claim the final word on history and if ours is to join them. With my words, I still (and steal!) his momentum: “But Bush has been out for almost six years.” “Yes, but it’s his policies—“ “Not solely. Not anymore.”

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Arévalo “Well, in the United States – “ I stand up: “Be careful.” “What?” His radio cracks into laughter. “Be careful.” “I don’t understand.” My adrenaline’s rocketed. The national anthem plays. I am now the narrator, the bandleader, the host of this conversation. “You speak as if you’ve been there,” you say and the rockets red glare. “I read – “ “So do I.” (bombs burst in the air) “Well, then you know that everyone sees your aggression – “ “My aggression?” I’m coy (and from the home of the brave?), shuddering as I stand, the chair trembling as my hand clings to it for balance. “Let me finish.” “My aggression?” Breathe. Let him finish. Distance yourself from narrator and protagonist again because he’s only trying to replay our nightmare: the litany of all we’ve known and done anyway, knowing better. Trying to make you bear it as your own; bear it as if you could’ve ever stopped it. Soon, you find yourself crying and this is why you have to tell these stories in second person. Otherwise, they’re too much for the one— not the elusive, united One but the single, lonely soldier—to bear. “I’m sorry,” you say, I say, maybe we say, apologizing for the tears. Blame it on a recent loss and maybe that’s true. But the biggest loss is your dream of being welcomed, of being invisible to wander free in this world. Your biggest loss is that your country has already cashed that check for you. “This is why we make art,” he consoles, as if you’ve

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We Such Apostles of Mercy any idea what the fuck he’s talking about. But you can’t yet speak. What you have to express is so primitive. It’s a roar, guarding the people you love from any more attack—a roar for the complicit, the bystander, the night watchmen, the willing participants. The ones who are gone and the ones you didn’t let them put away. Your host was itching for justice when you arrived, you see it now—you’ve had the same itch—and there’s a smirk to his face: he found your collective trigger. Ka-pow. The rocketing of adrenaline, its red blare, dissolves. “Look,” he whispers. “We could have done more. No one stopped the U.S.” By we, he means Europe. He does not mean you and I. He does not include you in WE at all. America— you—have just transcended to the bitter, lonely place of the other, a stance you know within your country as a rank in a whole. But outside the country you are a lone soldier, the Representative, and you can feel your country going down. He’s a know-it-all and a bully and you’ve somehow just said: It’s okay. It’s not you; it’s me. And it is. And it isn’t. And it was. And it will . . . He hugs you and carries your tea behind you, down the dim hall to your room. He grabs volumes you might be interested in reading and leaves them outside your door. To teach you about Where You Are From, Where You Always Are; not where you think you can escape to. As if, deep down, you never knew about justice. As if deep down you had no idea that America’s claim to social mobility might just be a myth. You glance at the Before and After snapshots of your ‘reasonably priced room’ and realize you signed on for a prison. Realize he wanted to put you there. You start to cry because you wish it was WE he meant! Wish to be included in the list of heroes and good guys going forward, welcome visitors, with good (not God!)

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Arévalo on your side. But you’re not one of those guys. You were never up for the role of hero. Your tea sits full and cold in its cup. You’re addiction to fairness now reveals itself as only a delay of consequence and the thought rips apart everything you ever knew about justice. Cry because he already thinks you’re from a land of crybabies. Cry because you’re proving him fucking right. But cry, too, because the anger has nowhere else to go. Leave the apartment and wander the dark Gothic Quarter’s streets of the age that is returning. The City on the Hill, the one you left behind, the one you didn’t know you were clinging to—the one you’ll forever answer for— collapses into the dust of a nightmare. And the freedom you sought, like an Eden over there, isn’t meant to be your home or your getaway; it’s only a story, an enduring myth. You are not its narrator. You are not its protagonist. In the shadows of the Quarter, see that long ago it was given only to Adam and his sons to carry on and they should be the ones expected to explain. It’s true or just easier—for you—that way. But you’re a woman: so you carry, carry. You’ve nothing but naked shame, shame, shame. Walk faster. Distance yourself from the locals out for an evening stroll, like they’re getting closer to the men set free by your shoddy defense. Feel the heat on you who carries, carries the evils of men who you can’t help but think of as yourself. A rotting egg salad sandwich meant to nourish and welcome you instead stinks up the bottom of your Rick Steves’s travel-lite backpack that sags from your right shoulder. When a man stops you on the street, asking if you’re American, where you’re from, as your insolent face makes him suspect “Ah, New York!” and can he get some straight answers from you about your country, and okay,

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We Such Apostles of Mercy maybe it really is innocent, maybe it’s only going to be about Angelina again and the films or stories we project, the fictions. But what I SCREAM is

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Dietary Restrictions

Josh kalscheur

I could just as easily never eat ham again as long as I’d eaten it once and could remember details about that house and the coffee table where I’d set down my plate, and what the room smelled like, hours later, after a group of adults, having eaten ham and dinner rolls and a casserole with crushed potato chips on top and then pie for dessert, were ending their holiday together, dreading a drowsy drive home. I could want for nothing, nothing ever again, but I could also be content if a kind stranger forced me to eat ham every night, so long as the stranger sliced across the grain and handed me cutlery handle first. I would like it, too, if the stranger attempted a blend of serious and light chatter and then piled the crispy dark edges onto my plate, staring at me as if to say, you will not waste one single thing given, do you understand me young man? Yes, I do but I want something with you first, I’d say by stabbing four ham edges, one for each tine. With more to say I’d search my plate and stab new edges, then I’d confess something to the stranger. I wouldn’t mind some silence that goes on without humor or eye contact or audible breathing amid chewing. If that was a part of the future, then I’d be sated with ham as my sole source of savory mouth action. Then I could eat and eat and eat and eat and eat and eat and eat and eat and eat and I’d want more to eat but only the ham and nothing else. I wouldn’t want for anything that wasn’t ham and all I’d want ever would be in front of me: ham and ham and ham fat and ham skin and dry ham and gristled ham and sweet slivers and shiny spirals until I’d go off for a stupid amount of sweaty sleep. That’d be alright for the stranger I’d hope and I hope it’d be okay for me too. I’d be fine. I’m sure of it.

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So You Can Stay

Josh Kalscheur

For sale are four middle sectional couch pieces given to me by four different owners who could only sell the coveted outer sections. There are still arguments for the utility of the middle sections, though with no spots for arms there is no potential for full-on zombied lounging. They were used daily but loved. They are clean and of a neutral hue and smell not new but come from pet-free homes or homes with hydroponic pets whose bodies are covered with hair and not fur. One is on repaired legs but I’ve been assured it was a done by a professional cabinetmaker. This is a sale, not a charity, but all the sectional pieces are free if moved from where they sit now: an unfinished basement where a current landlord stashed toilets and sinks and against one wall the leftover tools for a long-time tenant’s home welding project. I’ve mentally prepared the idea of moving the middle sectional pieces and plastic-wrapping them and dangling a deep discount tag from the top with a safety pin and peacocking them in lucrative city spots. I have other ideas, some ethical, some not. I must move everything as fast I can because I’m hoping to achieve something to hang my hat on before an old friend arrives at my place on Friday. My friend is here for only two days and I want a record amount of quality time outside of the actual sex, which is timed quality but not quality time. My friend is precious to me and I would like to be able to look back on the visit and consider it something to return to as a legitimate memory.

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Blank Pictures

Josh Kalscheur

Here I go. I’m walking up to the sliding door and pretending to walk in, like I’m walking in for the first time and have never been here before. Like I’m here for the first time. Okay, here I go. I’m here at the sliding door. What we have is one main living area, a kitchenette with kitchenette appliances. There’s a smell of cigarettes and then I smell a kind of musty smell as I’m fully inside the apartment and then I smell old food. I’m still just inside the sliding door and what we have here is standard gray carpeting. In the first few feet of the carpeting we can see that the carpeting has many brownish spots and if we zoom in we see smearing that obscures even the fibers of the carpeting, giving it a smoothness. The couch has a yellow and brown pattern of little flowers. There’s a sizeable tear right in the lower middle and now I’m holding a yellow ball of foam that was hanging from it. And when I pull on it, more foam comes out and when I pull on it more, more comes out and then now you see that it turns white. Here, the camera lens is all the way on top of the foam. Here, I’m now picking up clumps of fur that were visibly stuck between the couch cushions. I’m now lifting the couch cushions and there’s probably a half-bag’s worth of Cheetos Puffs and probably a cereal bowl’s worth of birdseed. Now I’m lifting the couch a bit to see the carpeting. I see a layer of dust that creates a kind of fur over the top of the carpet. If I hold up the wood support that was pressed against the carpeting I can see what the carpet may have looked like when it was first put in. Almost the color of an off-white undershirt. If we look at the main wall, we see maybe, at least a dozen posters and portraits, all World War Two era images and propaganda, some genuine and some replicas. Here you can see the squinting Marine with a Lucky Strike and a slight beard. Here you see Pacific theatre patches. Now I’m lifting the frame off the wall and I’m going to hold still the camera

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and I want you to watch the dust blow into the air. Ok, now see how I can’t help but breathe it in. See, I’m breathing it in. I can feel myself breathing it in. When we scan the whole wall we see a yellowish color in the wallpaper and sometimes light browns. If we look closely, we can see fingerprints, like ones you might make if you’d just eaten buttered corn on the cob and hadn’t used a napkin. Now I’m walking past the pantry and the pantry is actually a small bookshelf with an assortment of cans on it. We have what looks to be Dinty Moore beef stew, Chef Boyardee Beef Ravioli, Bush’s Baked Beans, Chili con Carne. I won’t touch the wood of the pantry because if we zoom in we can see splinters over one entire side. Spider webs and spiders dangle over the open back end of the pantry. Here, watch me shake the Dinty Moore can and you’ll see two dead bugs flake off along with small black pieces of who-knowswhat. If we look up to the cupboards we see there’s nothing in the cupboard and if we open the fridge we see a bottle of French’s mustard, a bag of Kwik Trip milk and a Cool-Whip container of what looks to be some kind of old left-overs. It seems to be a burger patty shape. Where the fridge door should seal there’s a long line of cracked plastic and then a trail of dribbled something. Over here by the sink are all of the dishes. When we hold the camera over the cups and pan across we see that many of them have molded rings of milk at the bottom. The mold is black with white fuzz, sort of the same texture as the dust under the couch. There are five plates stacked in the drying rack. Here, I’ll pick up the first four. There, you can see that a film of red sauce has dried into a film. Here, watch me scrape the plate with my fingernail. I got a bit of it off, though now I’ll have a bear of a time trying to clean under my nail.

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Dogs

Josh Kalscheur

Can dogs smell above their nose above the waist drugs above the waist adderall acetone athlete’s foot ants anger anything anxiety arthritis acid tabs through ammonia through aluminum foil through airtight containers through airtight jars through airtight bags through bleach blood butane beer bed bugs baby in the womb cannabis seeds chemotherapy carbon monoxide cancer coke codeine cheeba chews through coffee beans through cans through concrete through condoms chocolate cicadas cigars cigarettes dabs danger death diabetes depression dmt diamonds diseases in humans death coming through doors through duct tape ecstasy electricity emotion earthquakes ear infection through their ears feelings from a mile away flies through food saver bags through freezer guns gold gun powder grub worms graves through gonzo bags hash oil cartridges human pheromones hormonal changes their way home infections illness in humans in their sleep in the rain ice cream ice through ice through jars through glass through glass jars through mason jars knives ketamine kief ketone lightning labor liquor lighters liquid thc lung cancer when you’re leaving through latex through leather through lead molly mushrooms mice money menstruation methadone methamphetamine methylone methane through mud through mylar bags through their mouth narcotics natural gas nicotine nbome nail polish oxycodone opiates one joint one pill one molly pill one gram pills through a pill bottle pain pipes pot brownies pregnancy early pregnancy very early pregnancy prescription pills period blood through peanut butter through pepper quinoa rats relatives rat poison rattlesnakes storms steroids stress sadness saliva salvia silver salt seizures seeds sealed alcohol sickness swishers swallowed drugs sleep apnea scorpions scent in water schizophrenia shatter shrooms sharks stds skin cancer skunk something underwater sugar blood sugar suboxone through

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stink sacks through smell proof bags through shampoo tumors termites testosterone tears testicular cancer truffles tramadol trouble tragedy tincture ticks time through tin foil through wax tobacco in a car toenail fungus brain tumors through Tupperware through turkey bags underwater underground up high unborn baby unopened alcohol upcoming labor vaped weed Vicks vape pens vodka vacuum sealed containers Vegemite through vaseline vinegar vicodine Viagra snake venom wax weed water wolves wounds when you are pregnant when you are on your period when a woman is ovulating witchcraft through water wine with their tongues with their ears Xanax xtc Xanax bars drugs in your anus your breast milk your period your emotions your feelings your fear your energy your love for them your sadness through ziplock bags

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Weird Door

Josh kalscheur

I am beginning to see a wintry mix. I trail a truck dropping road salt and chunks hit on the windshield and shatter until a white smear accrues and my visibility suffers no matter how much solution I spray. I strain to make out my lane and slink in my seat to catch an undeterred patch of glass. Off and on I ride the rumble strip dividing the road from a triangleshaped wall designed to block highway noise from the housing development just a half-football field away. Up ahead are the headquarters for a major American company no one’s heard of because they produce parts and not the actual things that people know and use. Still they are powerful, I imagine. More salt trucks come and I am between two and behind two and I use my brights in bouts of micro-panic. I need the trucks to know I’m not happy with them though I’m not angry. I am sad because soon I could become seriously injured and I’ve yet to try for pregnancy with someone. I stop at a Kwik Trip to buy a shareable sized bag of peanut butter M&Ms. It is my favorite candy and one I haven’t let myself have in years. I tear a small corner out of the bag and with my right index finger pull out two at a time and they’re good and sweet upon first taste, which is what I had planned for. I pour a quarter of the bag onto the seat and they pool under my crotch and from there I shovel them and soon I’m lifting my whole hand to my mouth. I’m licking most my fingers and driving and feeling good. Ahead there’s a warmly toned sign for a Diesel Driving School and a blue billboard with language not yet legible. As I approach, I do not bother with the signs. I am busy with my tiredness, which is substantial, and I am getting close to the point of dying, which is what happens and I begin to understand all I could do to a family sedan with my tiredness. I am becoming so tired. I am just so tired I can’t fucking stay awake and I think about all the good people who might pull over, take a small resting

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of the eyes but I go on and clench my jaw, as exercise keeps you awake. I do ten minutes of clenching but jesus fucking christ I am tired and sad; there is nothing in my lap and bag and now I am so serene. I cut the heat and open my door and hold it open to get to the engine noise and air and snow. I am cold. There are people who want me home.

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On Winning

J.A. Bernstein

“I couldn’t buy the lice off a sick cat.” - Nelson Algren I Allow me to put in perspective what the Chicago Cubs’ 2016 World Series victory tangibly meant. Until then, one could plausibly claim that there came a point in every Cubs fan’s life when she or he ultimately realized the futility of this endeavor. For my late grandfather, it came in the fifth inning of Game Three of the 1932 World Series. The Yankees were leading the series two-games-to-none, but optimism was running high. The Cubs had finished the season with the best record in the National League. Led by the venerable Kiki Cuyler and Gabby Harnett, both future Hall of Famers, the Cubs of that era would go on to claim four pennants in twelve years. Also in attendance at Wrigley that day, according

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to the records, was a young presidential aspirant named Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and one who had campaigned vigorously against the laissez-faire policies of Hoover. A month later, he would ride into office on a wave of realignment, consolidating labor unions, blacks, Poles, Italians and Jews into what was until then an unthinkable coalition. What kind of reception he would have garnered in the stands is unclear. Chicago is not known, either then or today, as a bastion of tolerance, but it would have been interesting to see the reaction of my grandfather, a lifelong “Roosevelt Democrat,” as he put it, confronting the Yankees fan. It’s also unclear how my grandfather, the son of impoverished fruit merchants from Romania, ended up at the game. According to the records, a ticket would have cost anywhere from $1.10 to $5.50, or $20 to $96 in today’s dollars. My grandfather, who could have been called frugal at best—and that was in prosperous times—would not have been one to drop money on a ballgame, especially during the Depression. Even getting to the game from Elgin, Illinois, a rural farm town in those days, would have required half-aday’s ride on the trains, including a switch downtown at the Stockyards—in those days, a veritable jungle of Sinclairean proportions. Of course, my grandfather had been born in 1908, the last time the Cubs had won a World Series, and he was no doubt palpably aware of how rarely that could occur. It is said in the records that nearly fifty thousand filed into Wrigley that day for the game, which was broadcast on radio and featured what were probably the most photographed figures on the planet. But, as historians frequently remind us, there is no real good evidence for what transpired that day at the park. In the 1970’s, and then in 1999, a couple 16mm home videos surfaced, which purported to document parts of the game. To call these movies, however, is generous, as they resemble black-andwhite painting by Seurat, some shot in slow motion, all

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Bernstein hopelessly vague. Still, when I study these stills, I consciously seek out my grandfather among the specks and dots, wondering what he was thinking there, what he might have feared: another Yankees win, another Black Tuesday, maybe the Nazis’ ascendance? He had just married and was probably at the game with his wife, although she, my grandmother, never made any mention of it. And on second thought, what kind of woman would go to a game in those days? That’s a question she herself would have asked and probably explains why she never recounted this. Other venerable figures at the game—both male, of course—included John Paul Stevens, the future Supreme Court Justice and scion of a Chicago real estate clan that had been bankrupted by the Depression, and Kenesaw Mountain Landis, the longtime commissioner of baseball most known for expelling eight White Sox for cheating during the 1919 World Series—a move that could have only have been popular at Wrigley. Glancing at the images of the stands that day, one notices an abundance of white-brimmed fedoras, vested suits, and bright pocket squares. A few women in flapper hats and wide floral pins gaze out at the field in delight, but for the most part it’s males. And everyone’s white, of course. Landis, though known as a “liberal,” notoriously refused to integrate the game, and Jackie Robinson would not enter a lineup until after WWII, by which point Landis was dead. Landis, who was close to Roosevelt, would later and famously proclaim that peace overseas would not be attained until “about fifteen thousand little Hitler, Himmlers and Hirohitos were killed,” sentiments that my grandfather certainly shared. Whether my grandfather, like Roosevelt himself, was aware of what was happening in Europe at that point is unclear. The day before this ballgame, in Germany, which was still reeling from the Depression, the Nazi Party had gained its first elective majority in Parliament. Fairly soon

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On Winning after, Hitler would be appointed chancellor. My grandfather, who had Jewish relatives in Europe and whom he would not see again, could have not have been amused. In fact, one has to wonder whether the Cubs game wasn’t for him, like millions of Americans, a welcome distraction, if not from married life, then at least from the world soon to come. In Field of Dreams (1989), which is perhaps the most sentimental film ever made about baseball, Terrence Mann, the reclusive author, and probably a stand-in for Salinger, famously remarks The one constant through all the years…has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it’s a part of our past…It reminds us of all that once was good and that could be again. Hopelessly delusional, I’d have called this. Anyone who witnessed the Bronx Bombers of the late 1920s, a.k.a. Murderers’ Row, knew that the Cubs simply had no chance. The Yanks and their ilk had won it in ’28 and ’29 with largely similar lineups, and, though they had mortalized in recent years, they boasted no less than nine future Hall of Famers, a claim that perhaps no other sports team, past or present, could make. They were also coached by Joe McCarthy, a bull of a human, whose career winning percentages in both the regular and postseasons exceed those of exactly every other manager. Still, like many a generation of Cubs fan, my grandfather went to it dewy-eyed, full of the optimism that only a hardnosed Chicagoan could wield. Much has been written about what transpired that afternoon, the bulk of it undoubtedly aggrandized. What is known is this: the score was tied at four in the fifth inning when Charlie Root, the Cubs’ cigar-munching, hard-throwing

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Bernstein veteran, got the Yankees’ Joe Sewell, who would hold the record for lowest career strikeout percentage, to ground out to short. Making the play was a spritely little character named Billy Jurges, who, while throwing to first, must have a winced a bit, as he was recovering from two gunshot wounds—to the ribs and hands—that he had incurred at a hotel a couple months prior. In July, a showgirl named Violet Valli, with whom Billy was romantically linked, apparently took issue with his proposed breakup and tried to settle things on her own terms. Billy, ever the gentleman, refused to press charges against her. Either way, with the heart of the Cubs lineup set to bat in the bottom half of the fifth, things at Wrigley were looking up. In fact, at that point in the game, according to Baseball-reference.com, the Cubs, who had been heavy underdogs in the series, actually enjoyed a game win expectancy of fifty-three percent, their highest of the day. It was then, as the reports indicate, that a left fielder named George Herbert Ruth entered the box for the Yanks. The fans had been taunting him mercilessly that game— nothing new for Mr. Ruth—and reportedly pelting him with lemons. Whether my grandfather, the owner of an Elgin produce distributor, contributed to this effort is unknown. It is known that he, like all Chicagoans, openly despised Mr. Ruth, who, rest assured, elicited heckles and boos that his closest modern descendant, Alex Rodriguez, could not dream of encountering. Given that Ruth had already pummeled a two-run shot to deep right in the first, one can only imagine what it was like to be in that ballpark when the Bambino stepped to the plate. Wrigley, never a quiet park, by any means, had erected ten thousand additional seats for the series. Radio broadcasts had recently been invented, and, as the presence of Roosevelt might attest, this game represented more than just a national outing. It typified hope. It signified, as

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On Winning Terrance Mann tritely put it, rebuilding, and at time when America had, for all intensive purposes, been laid flat by a steamroller, at least economically. According to family lore, my grandfather, he of blessed memory, met his wife Sylvia at the Minnesota State Fair in 1929, where he’d gone to sell a trunkful of fetuses. Where he’d procured a trunkful of fetuses, which were evidently preserved in formaldehyde jars, or to whom he’d intended to sell them, are equally unknown though widely speculated about at clan gatherings. Equally unknown is what Sylvia, the youngest and arguably the most beautiful daughter of a well-to-do clan from Minneapolis, could have seen in a man hawking fetuses. Ambition, perhaps. Or a dark sense of humor. Either way, they were soon wed. He brought her home to Elgin, where he continued his father’s fruit business—what had originally been a Maxwell Street stand. How she felt about relocating to a rural town in Illinois, replete with at most three hundred Jews, is equally uncertain, though she eventually bore him four kids and, as far as we know, remained happily married to him until the day that he died, nearly sixty years later, a short while after which she too would pass. Looking at these pictures, one gets the sense that my grandparents were not unique in these stands. Nearly everyone looks young and vivacious. These are hardly the hollowed-out figures one glimpses in Dorothea Lange’s shots of the dustbowl. Granted, very few of them were starving— or they would not have dropped twenty bucks on a Cubs tick that day. But there is also something boisterous about them, something spritely and alive, as if they were acutely aware of what the Depression could render, or what Hitler would soon reap, and yet remained cautiously optimistic. They were almost all, I would gather, Roosevelt Democrats, and I have heard it said that no president since then has mustered the same charisma, the same forward-thinking

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Bernstein spirit or drive. Perhaps John F. Kennedy, but he was mainly lionized posthumously. Roosevelt, and nearly every person in the stands that day, right down to the flower-pinned flappers, looks genuinely hopeful. Beaming, in fact. As if anticipating what Ruth would then do. One can only have a sense of humor about it, anyways. After all, he was the Babe. As is well known, Ruth took the first pitch for a strike. The fans were obviously delirious, and it was later reported—by Ruth, in fact—that someone had spit on his wife, who was seated in the stands. What he did next is a source of continual controversy. Most who were at the game, including my grandfather, believe Ruth pointed towards the centerfield seats—what are affectionately known as the bleachers. To call it a rowdy section would be slightly understating the point. (When I was in the sixth grade, I nearly saw a man killed there, though the prices and crowd have since changed.) It is also known that the Cubs players were riding Ruth viciously at this point, and it is equally plausible that the slugger was pointing at them. The film reels do not conclusively resolve it. Either way, he took another strike and, as legend would have it, pointed again with his hand to the bleachers. What happened next, as they say, is history, and I do not care to repeat it. Needless to say, the Yankees went on to win that day—Lou Gehrig also drilled the very next pitch out of right, raising the lead to two runs, which would be more than enough insurance—and the Yanks would sweep the Cubbies in four. As is equally well known, the Cubs would only return to the World Series again in 1945, where they were also unsuccessful, and then again, in 2016, when hell froze. A great deal was written about the mathematical likelihood of such a drought, with some, such as Joe Gray, running complex numerical simulations, and others, such

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On Winning as Bill Murray, invoking curses and sorcery, to account for what was, by any reasonable measure, the longest drought in professional sports. Of course, trying to explain that to a Cubs fan, pre-2016, was a bit like reminding a Jew that his people have been historically oppressed. In some sense, that is exactly the point. What was clear, therefore, to every Cubs fan, including my late grandfather, is that if the Babe were going to call his shot, and to do so quite tauntingly, as he allegedly did, there was no other team it could be against. In 1942, ten years after this game, Ruth and the former Cubs pitcher, Charlie Root, were reunited during the filming of The Pride of the Yankees, a sappy tribute to Gehrig, who had died the year before and taken with him, it would seem, the whole of American morale. Gary Cooper starred as the slugger, alongside Babe Ruth, who was portraying Babe Ruth in what must have been one of his more difficult roles—the Babe had aged considerably by then and was, by most accounts, infrequently sober. Root, who had never (and would never) lived down the events of the 1932 game, was reported to have asked Ruth on-set, “You never pointed out to center field before you hit that ball off me, did you?” to which Ruth characteristically replied: “I know I didn’t, but it made a hell of a story, didn’t it?” This line is so comical that it has to be true. As Ed Sherman reports in his wondrous book on the subject, Babe Ruth’s Called Shot (2014), Root was tormented by the fable for the rest of his life. Having retired to a cattle farm in California, where he also dealt in antiques, he was recorded as saying, shortly before his death in 1970, “I gave my life to baseball, and I’ll only be remembered for something that never happened.” One could, in some sense, say the same for nearly every 20th-century Cubs fan. II

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Bernstein

In 1969, my father, who had abandoned the family fruit trade to take up the study of law, on the encouragement of his father, no less, found himself working at the Pentagon, where he was serving as an officer in JAG. More than a few of his classmates had gone and died in Vietnam, and he, like other privileged types, had enlisted in R.O.T.C, hoping to procure a deferment, or at least a stateside job. That year, Nixon had been inaugurated president, and he’d begin to scale back the war, though not before firebombing Cambodia and claiming millions of lives. Like most families of the time, my father’s had been split over the worth of the war, reflecting a generational divide, and, although he was no hippie, he wore a wide mustache, which was scandalous at the Pentagon and for which he found himself frequently rebuked. His wife, my mother, was also something of a free spirit and less than at-home among the military wives with whom she was expected to consort. “Remember, you’re ladies now,” a presiding colonel apparently told her, along with the other officers’ wives. Less than enthused with that prospect, she ultimately pursued an M.B.A. and carved out a niche for herself in commercial advertising, a world that, as any viewer of Mad Men will note, probably differed little from the Pentagon, at least in its treatment of women. Still, my father and she were happy, and prosperous, and young. That summer, Neil Armstrong had walked on the moon. Abbey Road had hit the shelves, and Charlie Manson had gone on his rampage, captivating the public’s attention. Clearly, it was a weird time to be alive. Even weirder, by the middle of August, the Chicago Cubs, who had not been to the postseason since 1945, coincidently the year my father was born, held a solid nine-game lead over the Mets, their nearest division rival. According to Baseball Prospectus, the Cubs’ likelihood of

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On Winning making the playoffs at that point was a whopping 97.9%. If those were your odds of getting a deferment, you’d probably tear up your card. Alas, nothing is certain with the Cubs, as surely my father must have known. On September 2nd, the Cubs, led by the quartet of Ernie Banks, Ferguson Jenkins, Ron Santo and Billy Williams, were doing battle at Wrigley with the Pirates, to whom they had already lost two. This final game of the series was important, since the Cubs would be squaring off next against the Mets, who required momentum to beat. Again, one shudders to draw on the statistics, but with the Cubs up by one in the ninth, and with two outs and none on, Chicago enjoyed a ninety-six percent chance of winning. Willie Stargell, the Pirates hitter, was soon down to his last strike, and with Phil Regan, whom Sandy Koufax had dubbed “the Vulture” on account of his ability for closing out games, working the mound, the Cubs must have thought they were set. Certainly, my father did that evening, watching, probably twisting the curls of his ‘stache. It was then, as they say, that history happened. Who would have thought Armstrong could walk on the moon? Undoubtedly many watching thought—and still think—the spacewalk itself was a hoax. The same must be said for the collective Cubs’ reaction when Willie Stargell drilled the two-strike pitch out of right, where it went skidding down Sheffield and, as I understand it, came to a rest right around the time that Al Oliver reached in the eleventh—on an error, no less—allowing Matty Allou to score and sealing the game for the Pirates. Soon after, the Cubs were swept by the Mets and ensnared in an eight-game losing streak. By the time the season ended, on October 2nd, the Cubs had fallen eight games back of the Mets, having lost what can only be described as a ghostly seventeen-and-a-half games in the standings over the final quarter of the season. My father, for his part, does not recall the moon

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Bernstein landing, but, like any Chicagoan, remembers the ’69 Mets. They, a team that had only been created seven years prior and, in their first season, had recorded the worst record in the history of baseball (a record that has not been surpassed, despite the 2012 Cubs’ best effort), would go on to beat the Orioles in five, capping their first World Series. To call this painful for my father would be like saying that Nixon was unnerved by Watergate, or Americans unenthused with Vietnam. III Schopenhauer, who was not, as far as we know, ever an admitted Cubs fan, famously remarked that “all wanting comes from need, therefore from lack, therefore from suffering.” On October 4th, 1989, I like, every other ten-yearold growing up on the Near North Side of Chicago, less than three miles from Wrigley, knew exactly what it was that I wanted. Blissfully untainted by puberty or concerns about schooling and work, I had only recently given up the fantasy of pitching one day for the Cubs—a fantasy that ended, in fact, when Robert Howell drove my third fastball across the far reaches of Chicago’s Oz Park, where it came to rest in a neighboring diamond and ended my little league season. My father, of course, was the coach, and he hadn’t bothered to console me too ardently, since the Cubs were at least in first place. Led by the All-Star trio of Ryne Sandberg, Andre Dawson, and Rick Sutcliffe, along with “The Wild Thing,” Mitch Williams, who boasted a shoulder-length mullet, and Jerome Walton, the enchanted Rookie-of-the-Year, the Cubs were a force to be reckoned with. When the Giants came to town that night for the first of the five-game National League Championship Series, the world appeared relatively stable. The Berlin Wall was still intact—it would crumble about a month later—and a lone

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On Winning protester had just stood his ground against a line of tanks in Tiananmen. George Bush had been sworn in as President— the competent Bush, it would seem—and topping the charts was a hit single by Milli Vanilli, who, despite some mix-ups at concerts, hadn’t yet had a Grammy revoked on account of lip-synching songs. Yes, it was a fairly good time to be alive. Like nearly everyone in Chicago, and perhaps the Midwest, I anticipated watching the game, which had a 7:20 start time, from my living room sofa. I had already arranged the cushions accordingly, allowing ample room for my folks, as well as, begrudgingly, my little sister, and had just begun setting aside Oreos, so that I wouldn’t have to move from my place, when the telephone rang. It was my father at work, calling to report that he had just spoken to my mother, and both were on their way home. Was I was aware that there was a baseball game this evening? Yes I was. How would I feel about attending such a game? “What?” It turns out my mother, courtesy of her boss, who managed some advertising accounts for the Cubs, was able to procure two extra tickets, which she thought my father and I “might like.” I hung up the phone—slowly, at that—and put the Oreos back in the bag. Then I started screaming. Downstairs in the basement, decked out in Cubs’ uniform, I started greasing my glove, a thin Rawlings pitchers’, which wasn’t ideal for catching fouls, given the modest-size pocket (the glove is designed, in part, for ballhand concealment), but it would have to suffice. The last time I’d used it was in watching Robert Howell’s blast sail over my head towards Milwaukee. I also had to settle on a selection of a cap—I owned about thirty—but ultimately opted for the classic, snapback design (I had grown out of my only fitted one). Then I waited for two endless hours. Finally, at six, when my father arrived, we took

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Bernstein the “L” train north. Before departing, he showed me the tickets—a lustrous pearl, not unlike the one Charlie Bucket is given by Willy Wonka—and we headed for the platform on Sedgwick. One of the virtues of public transit in Chicago is that you get to know other folks well. This is especially true of the Brown Line at six, and as much now as it was thirty years ago. The cars are like cauldrons of sweat, veritable hog pens, in which people of every class crowd, even the upper-middle class, as my parents, in retrospect, were. My father, too, was elated that night, and one could see it in his eyes as we rode, shuffling and swaying among the tall crowds, nervously clenching the bars. He too wore a Cubs’ hat—an old Little League one—and had changed into a sweater and slacks. He assured me it would be cold tonight, with a slight chance of rain. As if that would disturb me. Honestly, Lake Michigan could have flooded and I wouldn’t have noticed unless the game were called. Outside, the night glistened damply, purring along past the tracks. We thundered past balconies and thin clapboard roofs, the same ones that Cubs fans have been passing for ages. Oh, if these wood beams could speak. We transferred at Fullerton, trying to catch the Purple or Red, but it was clear that the trains were backed up. Everyone was grumbling. Would we miss the game? my dad wondered. Would I miss a catch? I thought. Eventually, the Red Line roared up, and dozens squeezed in, making space where none was. Nearly every single person wore blue, and, though everyone was cursing and sweating profusely, there was also a faint and latent sense that everyone here still Believed. Of course, this was Chicago, as everyone also well knew. The train started shaking, as if thrown by an earthquake. I gripped my father’s tan slacks. “Hold on,” he exclaimed. Oddly, a young black man was dancing, almost on

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On Winning top of us. A gold chain was dangling from his neck. Another man caromed into us as the crowds surged all around. Finally, we pulled into the station at Addison and shuffled along with the crowds, hearing a roar in the air. As we descended the escalator and emerged along Sheffield, where crowds had spilled onto the street, we caught the whiff of steamed peanuts and pretzels and smog and the homeless men pleading beside the 7-Eleven and the bobblehead Dawsons and foam hands for sale and the magical gleam of the place, that green-paneled Mecca, replete with marquee, that both of our fathers adored. To call Wrigley holy would almost be missing the point. My own grandfather, who had since moved to Florida and would soon pass away, hovered over the place, his misty laugh circling, like a roar surging up from the stands. As we approached the north ticket-gates, my father stopped and looked down. He ran his hands through his pockets. “Shit.” He smiled. “My wallet was stolen on the train.” I didn’t know what he was talking about, though I dimly recalled that gold chain. For whatever reason, he proceeded to the ticket booth, trying to explain what occurred. My father, whose legal training might not have served him well in this instance, as he knew we were shit out of luck, didn’t bother pleading. He simply muttered: “My wallet was stolen.” The clerk eyed him warily. Then she glanced downward at me. What exactly transpired in her mind wasn’t clear. It’s possible she saw in us a whole lineage of Cubs fans, from 1908 until then. And for whatever reason, she handed my father two spares. Whether they were the same seats as before was unclear—we halfexpected to see the two thieves sitting in them—but we were allowed to enter the park. And if we had to sit in the troughs in the restroom, that would have been just fine. We soared through the gates, my father and I, like

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Bernstein Allenby entering Jerusalem, or de Gaulle at the Arch de Triomphe. Immediately, the smell of stale Old Style accosted us, the same smell we always knew, but there was a magic in the air then, a glistening dew, that I swear I had never seen. As it turned out, that air would prove fateful, hefting quite a few balls into left. We climbed an interminable distance until we reached our seats in the Upper-Deck boxes, which seemed half-a-mile from the field, though they were empty and solid and painted dark green, as if they’d been waiting for us our whole lives. Quickly, we sat, a bit mystified by this, or at a loss as to how we were here. Above Waveland, the skies darkened redly. The umpire announced, “Let’s play ball.” “Get your glove on,” my dad said. The Chicago Cubs were now taking the field. Toeing the rubber that evening for the Cubs was a young leftie by the name of Greg Maddux. No one was really sure what to make of him. That season, he had nabbed 19 wins, though he mainly threw sinkers and a low circle change, unlike Scott Garrelts, the Giants’ ace, who had led the league in E.R.A., and whose fastball literally flamed. Our only chance was to outhit them, we figured, and not impossible, given the wind. Maddox must have noticed it, too, that evening, kissing his glove on the mound, his shoulders firmly lowered, a bead of sweat slinking down from his nose. The recorded temperature at start-time was 55 degrees, but I’d say it was approaching 112. “Come on,” I yelled, fisting my glove. In Heart of Darkness (1899), Joseph Conrad’s epic tale of evil and despair in the Congo, Kurtz, the European ivory trader, famously whispers before dying, “The horror! The horror!” Whenever I read this line with my students—

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On Winning I’ve since grown up to become an English professor, to the extent one can call that growing up—they interpret this line to refer to the violence of colonial oppression. Certainly, that reading is valid, and it’s undoubtedly been shaped by Coppola’s marvelous film, Apocalypse Now (1979), which adapts the story to Vietnam. Yet as the narrator, Marlow, explains in the novella, the “horror” is more metaphysical than anything and revolves more precisely around time: “perhaps all the wisdom, and all truth, and all sincerity, are just compressed into that inappreciable moment of time in which we step over the threshold of the invisible.” It is in that instant, that “inappreciable moment,” that life itself is distilled. When Brett Butler led off the game for the Giants with a single to left—a little squeaker through the gap at third—my father physically recoiled. He didn’t say anything, much as Marlow remains silent for the bulk of his river journey. But when a passed ball followed, and Will Clark smashed a double to left, driving in Butler, it was fairly clear that carnage lay close up ahead. Naturally, the Giants followed with another single and a double, notching a threerun lead. Fortunately (or not) in the second, Mark Grace, or “Amazing Grace,” as he’d later be known, bashed a two-run homer to left, driving in Sandberg and reducing the deficit to one. In fact, by the bottom of the second, the Cubs, despite trailing by a run, enjoyed a fifty-four chance of winning, according to the metrics. Needless to say, the statisticians had never been to the far reaches of the Congo, or the playoffs at Wrigley Field. When Will Clark returned to the plate in the third, a slight tremor, like the faintest hint of terror, crept over my father’s face. He stroked his beard pensively. “This won’t be good,” he explained. Sure enough, two pitches later, Clark banged a shot

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Bernstein into the bleachers in left, about a corpse’s throw from our seats, and the Giants took a 4-2 lead. My father ate nachos. I just stared at my glove. In the bottom of the third, Sandberg, not to be outdone, clubbed another shot to deep left, careening over the ivy. The Cubs were within striking distance, it seemed. And then this happened: Will Clark, who looked the exact opposite of Ruth—tall, lean, and angular, with a soldierly stride and black war paint rimming his eyes— returned to the plate in the fourth, much as Ruth had done in ’32, this time with the bases loaded. The bleachers were screaming, and even the fans in our aisle—who were mostly well-to-do suburbanites, or others who could afford the scalped seats—began shouting profanities that even my young ears had not heard, despite two or three enlightening summers spent at sleep-away camp. I don’t recall Clark calling his shot, but my father, for his part, almost did. Munching on a burnt Polish sausage, he sighed, “Maddox is losing his steam.” He had just gotten Thompson to pop out to short, and he only needed one out, but my father knew what was in store. On the very first pitch, Will Clark torched a shot into left that seemed, by all accounts, to evade gravity. It must have hung in the air for six seconds, then finally clanked down onto Sheffield. The ballpark was silent. Human time had just stopped. It was, to quote Conrad, as if we had just crossed the “threshold of the invisible.” IV About a month later, after the Cubs had lost the series—the Giants trounced them in five, having won the game we were at by a measly 11-3—Universal Pictures released a prophetic film called Back to the Future Part II. The film depicts, among other things, the Chicago Cubs winning the 2015 World Series. They would, according to the

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On Winning film, do it over a Florida team, of which there were none in ‘89, and do so on October 21st. On October 21, 2015, the Cubs, as is well known, played the fourth game of the National League Championship Series. They didn’t face the Marlins or Rays, but the media outlets were abuzz with the inanity of the prediction. “Could the Cubs do it?” they asked. I watched the game at home with my eldest daughter, who was all of two-and-a-half. In the first inning, Curtis Granderson came up to bat, facing the Cubs’ Jason Hammel, who had never won a postseason game. My daughter asked me, “this is baseball, daddy?” We were seated on the couch. The Met smacked a hit into left. “Kind of,” I answered. Four batters later, with two runners on and two outs, Lucas Duda, the Mets’ slugger, stepped up to the plate. Hammel pitched around him but worked the count to two strikes. “This is baseball, daddy?” My daughter was perched on my lap, wearing a Cubs t-shirt, her tiny hand cradled in mine. I didn’t release it as Duda’s homer sailed straight out of right, raising the score to 3-0. “No, sweetie, this isn’t baseball. And maybe we should go read a book.” I thought about Conrad, or Schopenhauer, even, but we settled on Curious George. Soon we turned off the lights—with the score 8-3— and decided we’d wait till next year. We did. And when Zobrist, the Cubs second baseman, thwacked a lead-taking double in the 10th, in Game 7 of the World Series, well after midnight, driving in what would be the series-clinching run, I started screaming. My daughter woke up—and probably my grandpa, as well.

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Faye

H.e. Francis

Gramp: Two weeks Faye’s been put away. I gave advice but nobody’d listen. It’s not my house. I told Head you’ve got to think things out, me hoping Lydia’d speak up more, say the kid’s part of the family, don’t send her away. Maybe she did—in bed where they must do their serious talk. But Head, all he could say is Faye’s body’s growing too fast and her mind not keeping up, thirteen and there’s Brick with her all the time, you can’t separate them, and him only twelve, wising up now, seeing things you can’t hold back from him. I said Natural, it’s his sister, families have got to take care of their own, watch them. Watch! Lydia said, that’s a twenty-four hour job, Faye’s slippery as an eel, you’d think she had a full head, oh don’t look at me that way, I know—you’ve said it enough—nobody knows what’s in that pretty thing’s head, okay nobody does and that’s the problem. If she was yours, I said, out of your womb, you’d do no such thing as send her to a home—just because she’s your dead sister’s, don’t think

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she’s not yours, she’s family. But Lydia told me off—straight: Now, listen, Pa—it’s Head’s house and his money, I abide by what he says, and he does give me every consideration, but once his mind’s made up—well, he says somebody can’t be all the time watching her, you have to remember it’ll be ten and twenty and thirty and how any more years, the kid’ll be gone, and you die and then me and Head—and then what? Then’s the time to put her away, I piped up. There’ll be nobody responsible alive then, Pa! Well, that hit me: There’s nobody alive’s responsible now, I said, if you stick her in that place, and is her aunt, Jennie, your own sister, not responsible, and her a town librarian? And Memory’s the oldest, seventeen and in high school and working part-time and she’s not responsible? And even Brick’s only a year younger than Faye, and Seth two, and one of them’s with her half the time. And me—am l some kind of idiot too old to mind her? Enough people in this house to escort a battleship but can’t keep track of one kid? Weeks I let all my spleen out. And Jennie looking vacant—don’t tell me she didn’t cry in her room, after the hours she spent with a book and that kid, first pictures and then trying with words, and Faye holding her gold lead up and those brown eyes shining sudden glitters and teeth white laughing, closing the book and making Jennies face fog up, lost, bad as when Hunter Parks ran off and got married on her—poor Jennie, she likes to push books—hear her anytime at the library: All dialogue the way you like, Mrs Mack, and not a dirty thing in it. I read it myself, Mrs Tuthill. I’ve been saving the new Dorn novel for you, June. She got to everybody except Faye, but kept trying. No wonder she shuts herself up nights or’s gone to some group. She’s hardly at table nights, and then, where she used to be all frothing talk, scarce a word out of her, run out of talk—and comes near empty-handed cause nights Memory and Brick and Seth have their hands full with homework. One more reason, Pa, Lydia said, Faye’ll set the kids back in school, they can’t get a lick of

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Francis work done with Faye after them every second. They want to be with her, and one at a time with Faye’s fine. Get yourself some discipline, Lydia—discipline, that’s what—and work out a schedule if that’s the only way to keep Faye home for good. And be a burden to them after we’re gone, Lydia said, is that it? Oh, Pa, you know I’d do and do for her, but it’s getting to the stage it’s just destructive to the family. Once downhill begins, it’s downhill all the way. Family! And I shouted, and I never did to Lydia before—you know what that means, family? And Yes, I know, she shouted back—and stared hard as a drill. She talked herself wordless, throwing it all back to me for shooting my mouth off—how she’s the one who’s loyal, or where’d I be? Shunted maybe to some place with nobody I know, and then, soon’s she shut me up, soon’s she got the words out, soon’s she saw how shamed I was, I yelled Me! It broke her up, she cried Oh Pa, Pa, and me standing helpless as a fool, ashamed but mad yet, knowing even Oh, Pa wouldn’t stop Head, he said he wasn’t having disgrace in his own house if he could help it and I didn’t even say Lydia, I couldn’t raise a finger, as if Lydia and I knew it had happened before it happened and we were grieving together over it. But she said Oh Pa, Head’s good, you know that. And Head is, he’s done for me, years. He’s just thinking of us, she said. I said And who’s thinking of Faye? And now’s two weeks to the day since Head and Lydia, Brick, Memory, Seth, Jennie, all of us took her there—to make it easy, seem like one excursion, and oh she was happy all the way and then went on with that woman down the corridor, and all of us, yes me too, just backed off, to tell the truth, just turned tail and ran, got in the car and hardly a word all the way home. Lydia: Head says What’re you so nervous about, hon? I tell him it’s the situation, it’s strange. I didn’t realize how you depend on a sound, a move, when life’s every minute something. Sometimes I’m at the sink and I hear the

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Faye Episcopal bells and the sound stops me dead, quick I think Where’s Faye? Because her laughter was fine and high as those bells—I never thought that till now, but it was. And twenty times a day I think Brick’ll take Faye or Memory’ll stay with Faye or Seth’s here with her till I get back from the store. But with no Faye the kids don’t have to be here like they used to, Pa’s out wandering more, Jennie has her bird-bite when she’s back from the library and goes to read, and Head, near dead after closing up the IGA, twelve hours a day, but goes out to his shop to his project, that classic Ford, a heap of junk, lights blazing out there half the night. Head’d be nervous like me, alone so much, the kids at school, Pa off, Jennie working. And Brick, when he does come home starting that whining again—thought he was over it, a month Faye’s gone: My sister, I want to see Faye. Cousin, I say. Sister! he says. He eats his tears, yes, just swallows them down. And Memory—you’d think she’d be happy she can bring her friends in the way Head said and with no shame they’d say a thing about retarded, peculiar, pathetic. Why, Memory never thought one time such words. Now I know she had friends in to help Faye, Faye was the one she wanted to show, it made Faye happy and Memory happy. And now Memory’s out with a different bunch every night, oh God I hope okay, but we can trust Memory, she’s solid, already knows herself and what she wants—college, to be a vet—and knows the competition, so studies. Still she goes more now, I see her books piled up there, this time nights she’d be at that desk. Where’s she now? Now listen to me! Once you start this worrying, Lydia Rackham, you won’t stop; you have to learn don’t substitute worry for change, that’s all. If I can keep telling myself that. Brick: When Miss Spooner goes out of class, a thing hits my neck. I turn. Fats’s mouth says The woods after school? I say Yes but don’t want the rest to see me say yes. I stare at my

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Francis book. I don’t want Reg and Louise and Anna to know, they’d tell Miss Spooner and maybe the principal and he’d tell Mom and she’d tell Dad and Oh boy! But I don’t care, I’m going ‘cause I don’t go to the bay hunting horseshoe crabs with Faye anymore; ‘sides, it feels good, Fats’s got plenty of stuff. I never smoked, I say. Fats says Whooeee, you don’t know nothing, and laughed. You never floated right in day right up into the sky? he says. I laughed at him. You can’t do that, I say. Oh yeah I can, you can too—but secret. Fats whispers all the time. Miss Spooner watches when she’s at her desk. Fats looks right at her every time. Fats likes the docks. He hangs out there. He likes boats. He knows them all, the names and where they’re from and who owns them. He’s smart. I can’t go to the docks. My father says You keep away from the docks or I’ll tan your hide. He would too. Sometimes I sneak—because Faye: he sent her up there, we took her, so’s nothing to do now. She used to wait, every day we ran to Gull Pond and’d sit and wait for fiddler crabs coming out of their holes or track down swellbellies in the bay, low tide it’s real shallow, you can chase them, we’d get on two sides and block them and scoop them up and scratch their bellies till they made balloons, or we’d find horseshoe crabs and play with them till we got tired and carried them home and threw them into Dickson’s chicken coop and watched the chickens peck and the crabs on their back claw and claw and that milky liquid coming out, and times we’d go all along the Sound cliff to trap birds. I showed her how: take this net and hold it over the swallows’ holes. She’d lay flat out on the cliff edge and reach down quick and block their nests and we’d catch us a bunch but always let ’m go, you wouldn’t keep the poor things or cage them or break their wings or hurt them none. She liked to hold them but more she’d laugh and laugh, happy when we let them go, and flap her arms like wings to go with them, laughing till she stumbled and fell down. And we collected butterflies, pinned them to the board Dad

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Faye made and I put the names MONARCH and BUCKEYE and LUNAR MOTH and RED ADMIRAL and made her say them and she’d say sounds and then call the butterflies me Brick and Memory and Seth and hold her gold hair out like wings and dance around. And when‘s dark woods and Fats says Smoke, dammit, Brick, I do—and me floating, Fats is right, it don’t hurt, and Faye like she’s right near me, even if I can’t see her I see her, I see her and say things. Fats laughs. He says What’d you two do? He makes a circle with his finger and thumb and sticks a finger back and forth in it and laughs, and I laugh, I can’t get mad ‘cause floating. He makes me puff and it feels good, it don’t hurt, but when I get out of the dark woods, it hurts. Fat says I got some girlfriends you can hang around with and smoke some—you come sometime? But I don’t want them, I want Faye. When I go home I hide under the porch and they can’t find me, they call and call. I cry sometimes when I’m watching the two big spiders Faye and me used to watch, I can’t help it. Mom’s calling at the top of her lungs, but I want to stay with the spiders ‘cause Faye, and sometimes I think if I find Fats he’ll give me a smoke and it won’t hurt, but Fats’s always at the dock, I can’t go, and sometimes here he says What’ll you give me? And me, I got nothing and Fats says I know where you can get something. Some what thing? I say. He says money—what you think?— money. I got no money. I’ll tell you where, he says, it ain’t far from you. Jennie: You can see the question on their faces the minute they enter the library to return books: How’s Faye? Like a condemnation, it certainly is—and we deserve that—though they are sweet with their Poor dear and She must be lonely and I know the family miss her. And Oh yes, I say, but quickly turn to the cards, the stamp, and escape when I can to the stacks or my desk. Escape, yes. It’s years since I had to do that. Escape. Right at my own job! Tonight’s the weekly Great

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Francis Books meeting. I don’t want to go. I never thought I wouldn’t want to. It set me back: I never thought anything would hit me like Hunter Parks. All over again. Pa taught Hold your head up, face the world, keep your troubles to home, when you go out that front door, you smile. Oh, yes, Pa, but how many times smile in hell? Well, you want the truth? Hateful to say, it was Edna’s dying that was my salvation when Hunter Parks ditched me—yes, what other word for it, ditched, trotted off to Syracuse with Valerie Bicks, not a word to warn and me left to walk out of this house—in snow, that blizzard! as if nothing in the world had changed. Yes, Sis dying and leaving Faye with Lydia, believing Faye would be as nearly normal in a family as she’d ever be. Oh Edna! You couldn’t have known—me your death saved because you gave us Faye, and Faye was my salvation. When Parks went she was in and out of my room, playing games, a hug and kiss and she so soft against me, love, warm, and oh yes smile, my nose in her hair—how she loved me to wash and blow-dry it, laughing at the tickles; and she tried to play the games, played till she’d dump checkers and parcheesi balls. She was beginning to imitate the letters and numbers I went over and over with her, she was. I thought she’d be my great triumph, she’d learn one day, she’d come round to reading and writing. I know she will yet if only they’ll give her the time up there. Oh God, Edna’d turn over in her grave. I hope she can’t know, hope there’s no way a dead soul can possibly know. I got down on my knees—the first time in twenty years, I swear—on my knees and prayed the night Head first mentioned she’d be a problem, Faye, it was coming to that, all the business about her fingers, dirty things, and picking any habit up—oh, innocent she was, he knew that. But think what it would get her and the family into, and who could possibly watch her every minute? Life has to go on, Head says. Life! How’d you know what that is! The ones who have it full seem to learn least about it. Go without then you know life, I’m here to

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Faye tell him. But that child! She won’t ever have the illusion of a normal life. Maybe that’s her salvation—she won’t suffer that damnation? At times I wish—yes—Edna’d never had her. And why do I wish that? Why? Because when they sent Faye off, he came back—Hunter—yes, filled the vacuum till he’s everywhere. I see him. I see him walk the beach. I’m so sure it’s Hunter I could run and catch up to him. I see him in the A&P, at the Cozy Corner, down Main, sometimes I’m afraid to look up when the library door opens because he might truly be back in town, what I always feared, come back to live in town with Valerie Bicks and maybe their own little Fayes; and nights—oh Faye, if you were only back to save me from those nights—he’s here so close that I know, know, if I reach out I’d touch him—and I do reach out—and I could cry out, yes, but they’re all home, they’d hear. Oh thank God for work, all those people coming in, at least for a little while they hold him back, Hunter. Seth: Mom said Faye’ll grow up better there. Then whyn’t you send me there too?, I said, don’t you want me to grow up good? Mom laughed and squeezed me. Yesterday I let the turtles go, I don’t care, and crumpled the pollywogs on the grass. The black tails wiggled and wiggled. Sun came today, they got dry and hard, they stink. When I went in, Mom said What’s that smell? I don’t know. She took my hands: Why, smell them, she said. Now you eat all your supper, you’re too skinny. And Dad says eat, and aunt Jessie too. Used to be a regular little earthworm stuffing it in, Gramp said and took me on his lap, but didn’t smile. Earthworms just drown, I said, I seen them in the rain puddles. You won’t, he says. I don’t care, I say. I go out. Mom says Where’re you going, Seth Rackham? I don’t answer. Where are you going? I keep walking. It’s not dark yet. The trees are red high up. The trees move. The wind pushes everything. I run down the road to the stones. They’re all bright. Dead people are under them.

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Francis The lilacs smell. I go to the pond. I run and look behind every stone. Faye? Faye! We played hide and seek. She’ll hear me. The pond’s all bright. A rat goes down. The edges are muddy. Just the water moves there and stops and the wind moves it again, tiny waves dark and dirty. The water’s all shivery. I wait. The rat stays under. I hear the boats. Dad says stay away from the marina, too many things happen there. But I go past—it’s loaded with boats, white and blue and yellow and green, up on the land and in the water. If I keep going past the deep grass and the pole with the kingfisher’s nest and the trees and the Catholic cemetery, there’s the swim hole and then the bay—we swim there all summer, but not yet, Mom says It’s not hot enough, when school’s out you can go every day. And there’s the breakwater, it goes far, it goes deep, it reaches halfway to Shelter Island. I climb the stones the way Faye and me did. I’ll go out there, the wind blows, it’ll help me, I’ll call her, she’ll come, I know she will. I’ll sit on the end, I don’t care, I’ll stay there till dark comes or nothing. She’ll come. Memory: Craig said They’ll bring her back, then what’ll we do? said You won’t ever be free then, said Listen, Memory, you’re grown now, a woman, I love you, we’ll be married someday, that kid was always in the way, you never could get out—okay, don’t want to, you say—but now you’ve got the nights free. So your mother and father complain you’re never home and you can’t keep telling them you’re with Marcie doing homework, Craig said said said. Talked up a storm, Craig did. And oh god his hands. You know you feel it, you like it, feel this. And wouldn’t stop. It hurt. And blood. Because it’s the first time, he said. How do you know these things, I said, how, Craig? Oh Memory! Don’t Oh Memory me! How, Craig? And thinking How’ll I hide the blood, wash it secret, throw my underwear away, say I lost it, but how could I? And beating all the time there, and my legs. And

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Faye thinking, because I was scared. And all next day it was eyes, everything was eyes, I knew Mom and Dad and Gramp and Jennie and even the kids saw things. What on earth makes you so jittery, Mom said. She was too busy to turn around or she’d see she made me turn purple. I felt purple—with that blood. Blood. Lucky I had school. I had to run for the bus, all the way sat there thinking It hurt me, like a ten-foot pole. I wouldn’t let him do it again. Head: Three times that kid’s done it. Months now Faye’s gone and Seth won’t settle down. All night it took to find him the first time. Brick knew. He wouldn’t say. Seth and Faye were crazy for the breakwater—every chance they got. There he was, asleep, and it nearly blowing a storm. Seth cried against us. You’d think he’d have been glad we’d found him. I wasn’t lost—you only find people when they’re lost. He almost fought when I picked him up. What ails you, Seth? If I hadn’t been so glad, relieved to find him, I’d have licked him good. He’s not cured. He’s got it in his head we did a mean thing to him, at him, not anybody else. If you do for your kids, you’re mean to them, they turn on you. I don’t get it. A man can’t come out right. I keep at Lydia and Pa and Jennie, all of them, whenever they complain It’s Faye, Faye. Jesus, I wish I’d never heard the name, never seen Edna, never had the girl home a single night though for sure things were quiet when she was here, I grant that, but how long would it have gone on that way? I ask them. Pa says You don’t ask such questions, you just keep going. But Pa doesn’t have to run the whole shebang—a store and a house—or handle things when all hell breaks loose. It falls to me. Not if you trust us as if we have some sense, and listen, Pa says. Pa forgets the days he had to do it. He can rest easy. Some of us don’t know what rest is, never will. Lydia: I tell Head I don’t care what he thinks, he’ll just drive

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Francis us straight up to see Faye. I promised Edna I’d care for her. The least I can do is see Faye. He says It’s not enough she’s well taken care of ? That, I said, remains to be seen. Oh, Head doesn’t mind the trip, it’s the time, six days at IGA dawn till long after dark, Sundays half-the-time business nobody else can do. Marry the store, why don’t you? I already have, he says. But he won’t take the children. No crutches, he says, they’ve got to get used to the idea Faye’s gone, and we can’ be traipsing up there every time they get the whim. Face it is face it—I’ll teach them that if you don’t, he says. Them, maybe, I say, but not us, Jennie and Pa and me. He insists You three go, then, but don’t torture the kids, don’t tell them. Somebody’s got to rule around here. Head’s fed up with the world. War, that’s all you read—it’s not enough the Jews and Arabs and blacks and Irish have to go at it, even God doesn’t help—volcanos, Hurricanes, tidal waves killing by the thousands. You think I’m not sensitive, he says, don’t see things? And how’ll you feel after the visit to Faye?—dredged it all up, didn’t it? not a word from you or Pa or Jennie till you had to satisfy the kids, describe her ward, the dining hall, rec room, quadrangle, monitors. You want the kids to see that again? No, you don’t. And worst of all you don’t want them to know she’s happy there, do you? Happy! I say. How could she be? He says Because she’s— But I clamp his mouth shut. Don’t you say a word, don’t you dare say one word, Head Rackham. Gramp: I swore we’d let none of us go into an institution. Who was I to promise that? Oh, they say, it’s what they’re for, we pay for them, we’re entitled to that. Entitled! Covers a multitude of sins, oh yes, that word does. Shunt sins off, then nobody has them anymore—is that it?—a sister’s not a sister nor a daughter a daughter nor a child a child? Nothing’s yours if you don’t want it to be. Drop the hot potato? Then what are you? Who? Tell me that. I’ll tell you, Head. I’ll tell the

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Faye world: You’re what’s yours, that’s what. And take it and accept and keep it and, what’s more, face it. Keep to home what belongs to home, give what belongs to give. What happens to us is you. Hiding family won’t change you and yours. Cousin Jeff went two years to the reformatory, old aunt Lettie’s sex thing drove her mental, my brother Ralston was caught in Ed Starkey’s wife’s bed, Wing shot his wife and her lover and himself, Bill was gassed in World War I and wandered vacant all over town for ten years. All that’s ours, the family you married into, Head, when you married Lydia, Head. A body’s got to remember—cut out one of your parts, it’s not growing back, you may think you’re better for it but you’re not whole, you’re not all there, not by a long shot. Six months Faye’s away and I’m not right yet. And Memory’s gone secret on us, sits and stares—oh, part’s boys, sure, but she’s not just mooning or they’d be happy stares. Brick used to be all piss and vinegar, so much get-up-and-go you couldn’t nail him down; now you stick him with a pin and he won’t move. Seth’s like he doesn’t even live here anymore. And me, sometimes I want to tell somebody, I want to shout Where’s my grandchildren? Nights there’s nothing. Doors close late. Just Jennie. Sometimes she comes sit with me. When I look up, she knows, she doesn’t have to say. There’s a sickness in her that’s not the body but takes it out on the body. We’re closer than we’ve ever been. Who’d have thought it? Memory: You can’t trust anybody. Told all the boys, Craig did. Bragged. All he wanted was that. Big man. And he came back. You’re the only one, Memory; I’d never with nobody, honest. Liar—I let him have it, smacked him. And I studied, studied. But see him at school, see him walking home, see him pass the house, his car, his, all the time go by now; plants himself, yes plants, where I go, wherever I am, in that damned green Falcon. Hear him slow up when I’m home studying, round and round the block. Well, I said,

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Francis I’ll fix his wagon. Lots I went with—Phil, Syd, Randy, Will Falls, and his brother, Wes, too. And studied. At least that I learned—from Gramp. No matter what, study. Nobody can do that for you or take it from you, and it’s the thing you can do for your family. But the other thing’s shame, mine, I did it—but you can’t trust anybody. At least I won’t lie: you made me hate this town, Craig Puttock. I hate it. I shouldn’t have trusted you, you liar. But it’s not you taught me you couldn’t trust people. I know now if my people find out—they will too—I don’t care, I’m studying, I’ll get there, I’ll get out of this town, because they’ll find out, everybody’s a big mouth, they live to talk, go at it like birds after seeds—and if they find out, I can’t trust home either, they’ll boot me out the way they did Faye, but poor Faye couldn’t help it—fingers and curious and dumb, dumber than all of us. We knew that. What’s wrong with us? You can’t trust anybody. At least, I’ll have animals, you can trust them and they trust you, animals. I’ll be a vet if I’m not anything else. I’ll be the best vet in the world, I will. Lydia: I told Head something was on Brick’s mind, he’s concentrated like when he’s got a project at school, goes at it hammer and tongs, nothing stands in his way, nobody counts: like that. Brick, I say. I touch his hair, but he won’t respond, grits his teeth it looks, and then up from the table without If you please, Mom or Excuse me. Is that the way you leave the table? But he keeps going as if I don’t exist, he doesn’t hear me. A trance. Gramp: Jennie won’t lie I know, but when Head says Where’s Memory? she goes quiet, eats, reads, gets busy, but won’t look straight at him: ‘cause Memory’s up in Jennie’s room. Never was before. Something I don’t know. Something between them. Boys, maybe. It’s that time. Head’s been looking daggers. And Lydia’s close-mouthed. I want my kids home,

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Faye Head says. He hurts. I hear it. Hindsight can’t rectify. He had a good thing, all of them home, he didn’t appreciate—didn’t even know—that. How come a man never knows when he’s got it all? Well, that’s it—knowing after. How figure that out? We’re not much good to them at all, me and Jennie: to get Melanie through, and Seth, he’s the one, too young—that smell, a smell I never smelled before, sickening sweet in his hair and clothes and I found it, the place—Faye’s it used to be—under the front porch: I watch. If I’m out, I watch the shadows. That boy doesn’t know it yet but he’s going fishing and crabbing and rowing, going to have so many things to do with his old grandfather he won’t have time to smoke the weed, won’t want to—we’ll handle that. First, old man, there’re birds, he loves birds. You get ready for that boy Seth. Cops came, the school principal, Bill Cobb his homeroom teacher, one after the other. You’d think a court trial right in the living room. A hard warning and Seth only going on thirteen. I keep thinking Don’t let it happen to Seth. He’s stubborn but soft, yes, a kid protecting himself. And what good am I, me, old fart, if I can’t save him, try to—or what’s it all about? What am I for?—to spend my life in a chair, going from room to room, the yard, down to the docks to talk to the men I know at the Oyster Shop or Preston’s? Lydia: Brick gone from school the whole day. Didn’t show till one o’clock in the morning. Everybody crazy. For once, let’s handle it my way, Head Rackham, I said. Don’t mention a thing. Don’t talk. And thank God Head didn’t say a word. But Brick hasn’t either, not one word about it, days now—just looks dark, deep ahead, lost. It’s killing me, but I won’t ask. I’ve sworn I’ll wait. This time let him come when he’s ready, I won’t push. Brick: That place Faye’s at. Up-island. I hitchhiked. Sinic and Joey said not the expressway, there’s too many cops cruising.

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Francis Took the old roads on the Gulf map. But wouldn’t tell. Sick. My sister, I said. The drivers knew. Taking risks, I know. For my sister. They’d look funny. And set me down. Good luck! when I slammed the door and waved. That place—it’s walls and big—it’d scare you—I never saw so many windows. The lady said Young man, I bet you’re looking for somebody. I even had to laugh. I’d have a hard time finding her in this place. I told her Faye Goins. Faye, she said, I didn’t know Faye even had a brother. But I knew the sound—she was faking too, like us boys back at the gym lockers when the coach comes around. She knew, but looked first at some card. Have you seen her before? I shook no. Ten months. And you’re her brother? I looked her straight back. Yes. We went down long halls and back out in sun. I couldn’t see a minute but all them kids out there and kicking up dust in a big walled-in playground hard dirt and no grass or trees, nothing. And Faye. Her gold head stuck out right away. I thought I’d cry. I ran. Faye! She was sitting in dirt, laughing at them, the others holding hands, swinging around and around. Faye! I was never so glad. Faye! Faye looked. She just looked at me. Faye, it’s me, Brick, I come all the way from Greenport to see you, I hitched, wish you’d been with me—you should see the sights. She didn’t smile. She looked. Faye? I said. She dug her hands in the dirt, she threw it up all over her skirt and shoulders and hair. I thought she was ashamed. Faye, it’s me. She paid me no mind. She threw and threw. And the kids were dancing. Then she laughed. She pointed. I said Faye. I wanted to cry, I couldn’t help it. It’s me, Brick. I stood like a dope. She laughed. She threw. My stomach beat. I thought I would die. I felt so sick. Why didn’t she know me—me, Brick. Head: It’s why I got you, hon. All day you’re home. You see them. You know what they think—don’t you?—and feel and see, the little things. I go early, come late. Maybe it’s my judgment but not without what you tell me. Memory’s

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Faye boy time and Brick tight as a clam and Seth tearing wild at the bit. Almost a year now and Pa never forgave me, I get dark looks or no looks, turns his head, looks down—I know—and Jennie a hundred percent with him. I can’t help it Parks Hunter skipped town on her, can I? Without that she wouldn’t have lived for the kid, Faye—it’d have been fine, but no—That Parks Hunter. I could kill him, yes. You think I don’t think all the time I’m at the IGA keeping the meat market and the produce men running and the clerks, to keep them from laying out, the least little thing gets to them, out drinking mostly, you think when I’m trying to train new girls at the books I’m not thinking every minute Seth, Brick, Memory and what’s going on here till I’m near crazy—you don’t know that?—and running around half the night to track them down, keeping tabs, trying not to let them know, not to hurt them. And Pa blaming me. You don’t think I don’t know who’s to blame—do you? Well, I do. But he says it, Pa says it. Don’t you have to live with what you’ve done? If I’ve done it, I have to live with it—that means you do and they do and he does too, like it or not, Pa does. I always had to run things since a boy, my mother asking me, depending on me, as if there was nobody in the world could decide things but me. Seth: I saw him. , He came right in Moore’s Woods. Brick! Fats, I said, it’s my brother, holy smoke; but laughed. Fats knew how to make me feel good. Fats says Take a puff, another puff, yeah. I laugh. Brick’s mad. You, Fats! He’s on Fats before Fats can say a word, and Fats big and Fats fat, but Brick hits him, knocks him, Fats yells What the fuck, man! And Brick Don’t you what the fuck me, you sonofabitch. Mom and Dad’ll kill him for such language. I never heard him swear, and he hit till Fats says Holyjesusstopstopstop and’s running through the woods, and Brick says You, Seth. Well, you did, I say, Faye says you did. If your big brother

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Francis can, you can too; if you don’t you’re a coward—said that to me. So I will if I want to. And Brick says Oh no you won’t, not if I can help it. I stopped and you can stop. You know why I stopped? And me No, why? He had my arm, twisted it behind me and I yelled Stop, Brick, and he said Not until you do, you’re going to stop, I’m going to make you, and pushes me flat against the ground, I can’t move. You’re hurting, Brick, stop. I’ll make it hurt more too if you don’t stop, from now on you ain’t going noplace without me, see, not with Fats nor nobody, just me, not with Fats nor nobody, just me, see? You’re not going to be like I was, sick because Faye, Faye’s gone, Faye. And you know why I stopped— same reason you’re going to stop: because she ain’t worth it, she’s a nut, a nut, Seth. I tried to hit him. You’re crazy, I said. But he held me down. A nut. Who’d take that stuff a nut, kill himself for a nut? Shut up, Brick, stop it, stop it. He made me cry—it hurt, he twisted, he pressed my head into the ground, pine needles, they hurt. You going to stop? He pressed and pressed till I yelled Stop stop stop. Not for a nut, a nut, a nut. Will you stop? Say yes. Say it! Brick pressed hard. Say it! He was crying. I couldn’t move. Yes, I cried, yes yes yes yes. Jennie: I can’t change her. I can hold Memory when she comes to my room, let her sleep in my bed sometimes, talk to her; but it’s growing like a hard thing in her never to take out. The first can do that. In all your life there’s no other times the same. The first. Even when you get over it, you don’t really. All you have to see’s his face, every time in your life you call it up, you wish you didn’t but sometimes, yes, you want to remember even that. She listens, but won’t. It’s on her mind she can get back at them, I can tell. You can’t make others pay for what somebody’s done to you. How you take it’s character. I try not to preach, but no matter how I say it, it comes out that way to her, feels the world’s against

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Faye her. She can’t believe she’s against it now, she’s put it there. Somebody’ll come, there’s always somebody, I say. I don’t want anybody, she says, not nobody. I feel her grip when she says it, nobody. I hate to think why. Why? Why do some of us? Ohdeargod. At least she’s back to her books. Books’re your only friends, they’re not mean, they don’t get back at you—and animals. All A’s she gets, she’ll get where she’s going. Gramp: The woman’s got to do it. She’s to home. If she’s not strong, the whole shebang falls apart. Carrie trained her, I trained her, I don’t know what went wrong. Family’s family. You hang on to everything, no matter what, come hell or high water, rot if it must but it’s yours. Seth loves the breakwater, it’s Faye’s place, I know that. School’s out for the day and we go. Brick says like a little man You watch him. I laugh. A man he’s getting to be. Tough, though. I can see it. Head’s in him—strong. You want to tag along, Brick? Good fishing from the breakwater. Or swim. We don’t care. Might, he says. Seth: Fats says, Listen, you tell your brother I’ll have them skin his ass if he squeals what I’m doing—see? Looky here what it’ll do. He took a puff and closed his eyes, and puffed and took deep breaths like gym and smiled. My mouth watered. I kept my hands in my pockets. I wanted it. But he’s not far, Brick’s somewhere close, he’s watching, I know he is. No, Fats, I said. Aw, come onnnn. Keep it, Fats, I said. My brother, I didn’t see him, but I was sure. Fats came close, blew a little in my face. Sure? I said Git, Fats and turned around. I ran. Hey, kid. Your Brick boy, you tell him what I said. Gramp: We’ve had wild ones in the family before—Indian blood, even. Had one couldn’t stand her time every month,

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Francis whooped and hollered and broke in a dance and carried on like a crazy woman, and then settled down till next month. Lydia says this is different. Everybody is, that’s the world. This is yours is what you mean, Lydia, I said. Scold and you’ll lose her. What else can I do, Pa? she said. I said Listen, you do anything else, it’ll be two you lost this year. Don’t, Pa, don’t keep at it, don’t keep at me and him all the time. Why’re you so hard on Head? Because he’s not hard enough on himself is why. But she said That’s because he’s easier than you know. Easy! I said. Or where’d you be or Jennie or— Oh, I’m sorry, Pa, I’m sorry. It’s just…Memory and all. And sometimes you’re too rigid too, Pa. You keep saying a man’s got to give in a little, meaning Head, but hasn’t any man? Since Faye, you’ve been stubborn and stubborn. Won’t give an inch to Head. Well, don’t. You make me see he’s got his reasons, good reasons from his point of view. Why’s it always got to be my reason? or yours? or Jennie’s, or the kids’ for that matter. Now tell me, hasn’t he got his rights? Talk that way, Lydia, and I’ll just get myself a place, even on my pension, and get Faye out of there and take her where she belongs. Go ahead, say it one more time, keep it alive, will you? and all I’ll say—and I never thought I would—I’ll say Go ahead, Pa. You make your decision, same as Head his— go if you like. And me thinking if Ma ever heard me talk that way to Pa, she’d turn over in her grave. Jennie: Her picture’s in the paper, Memory’s scholarship to Auburn. Everybody who comes into the library praises her to the skies, and a chance----they take seven a year—to get into their vet school, one of the few in the country. I cried I was so happy and sad I couldn’t tell her. Graduated and only two months of her left, and then Alabama. She’s working two jobs. She’s not following me. Oh, it’s the money, but more to be too busy to be with anybody, to fight herself so she won’t have time to give way to herself and go with boys,

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Faye bottle it up and pour it out in studies, I know, I do. She’s so like me she could be my girl, mine I’m warming and consoling at night. She talks, lets it all out. I know. I’d forgotten—with Faye, my girl, she was—how much more you can love when a body can talk to you, you can understand and be understood. She somehow, more than Faye, gave me that, the talk, mutual, as if she knows but will never say, as if she understands that I understand because…Hunter Parks, though she asks about boys, my school days, my loves. Did I ever? I have to laugh of course every schoolgirl everywhere has in her life that wonder, joy, experience. She must feel me trembling, sometimes she squeezes, her hand says. When’d I know such comfort? And I think two months left, think They’re mine, she and Faye, think I should have had one with Hunter Parks, should have had it even if he never knew, I’d have been me then, whole, not a, no, half-crazy aunt, lonely even with a whole family around me and never not till little Faye they took away did I think it’d happen. I thought Faye’d be my life, Faye, and sometimes want, like Pa, to go up-island to that place and tell them Faye’s mine, I’ll take her now, right now, for good, yes. Lydia: Go off and rent a place with every cent of your pension, and Jennie to housekeep for you—when she’s not at the library, I suppose—that’s your plan, Pa? And you tending to Faye all day—is that it? Where’s your head, Pa? And heat, electricity? And how many years do you think it could go on? And do you think, think, for one minute the State’ll let a man your age take a child out of an institution without the reasonable guarantee you got enough years left to see her through till she’s an adult—in body, yes, but not so’s to be able to stand on her town two feet in this world. Oh, yes, I know—there’s Jennie after you’ve gone, and what kind of life’s that for Jennie? What do you mean what kind of life’s this for Jennie? What other life’s she got? If she’s going to change, she’d want to go to better or what kind of fool’d you take her for?

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Francis

Brick: I’ll watch Seth and Fats. Who’s watching me? They get you in trouble. Stay by yourself, that’s all. Don’t trust Seth either. He’s my brother, but he’s a dope, he lets them. Not me. Nobody’s going to bash my head in or put me away or say I’m weak with Seth. I’ll go my own way. l’ll watch. I’ll watch everybody. Seth: I wouldn’t kiss her. Memory’s going to college, she won’t be back till Christmas, Seth, kiss Memory. Let her go— and you and you and you. I got Gramp. He won’t go. I ran. They couldn’t see me go under the porch. The spiders were still. It was hot. I heard them shouting for me, then their talk. The trunk banged. The car doors banged, first one, then two. They said Bye, bye, bye. Their voices sent on. The car headed for the depot. It got quiet. The web moved. Danko started down. Jennie: Oh Hunter! You, Hunter. And Faye! Now Memory! Then who? Who’s next? Gramp: Lydia loves her flowers. She’s always in the garden with her dahlias, marigolds. Fall’s good to mums, her late roses, not a Japanese beetle, she gets every one. Jennie hates outdoors, a bookworm if ever there was one, worse now—if she was Catholic, she’d be a nun, poor Jennie. She cries. I know: whenever she sits on the porch for company, I’ll sit. I won’t talk. And Head—you don’t see hide nor hair of him, hiding himself in that shop with the Ford. He did wrong, he knows it. He’s shamed, that’s what. Can’t admit it. Seth: I saw him from the school window—Gramp. He sat on the bench at the bus stop talking to people. They caught the bus. He stayed. After school I ran to the bus stop. Hey! He laughed. Well, look who’s here! he said. I was about to get

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Faye myself up for a trip to the docks, there’s a cup defender in from Australia going to run us a race. Australia! I know where that is—down under the globe. Want to see the ship? Gramp said. They’ll let us on. Wow! Let’s go. Lydia: Memory’s gone, his girl’s gone. I know. It’s his other woman, that car. I said Have you ever seen such spider mums, Head? He gave a glance like not interested, but I knew he saw, he’s that way. Thought I’d put Seth in Memory’s room. It’s your house—do what you want, he said. Our house, I said. Yes, he said. Because that might keep Pa, I said. Pa’s not going anywhere, not taking any Faye, it’s not possible, Lydia. He might try, just to be perverse. He is perverse, Head said. He says you are. We’re both perverse, let him go, you can’t have two men rule a house any more than you can two women. I said Why don’t you tell him that. He’s your father, you tell him. I laughed. What’s so funny? You, I said, wouldn’t budge, would you? Listen, Lydia: over a year and he’s been talking sin sin sin. I don’t believe in sin. How can you believe in sin when nobody else does? He does, I said. Well, he’s alone then. We don’t want him to be, Head, do we? That’s up to him, Head said, not me. Is it? I said. He’s got Seth, hasn’t he? What more does he want? He’s got the boy all the time now. You’re not jealous? I said. Now why’d I be jealous—he’s home, isn’t that all that counts. Not all, I said. Well, he said. Pa won’t come to you, I said. I wouldn’t expect him to. You could let him know you don’t want him to go. Now why in hell should I do that? He said. Would he do that? Isn’t he supposed to practice what he preaches? Maybe if you asked him, he’d see how rigid he is, maybe you could make him bend, shame him. I don’t want to shame him, Head said. I laughed. Why’re you laughing? Oh, no reason, I said, but you could ask him to stay. I won’t, he said. You could show him you’ve got a little of what he says it takes to keep things going, I said. What’s that? he said. You know, I said. What? He said. I laughed. Nobody can live without it long, I said, even when

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Francis they think they can. You want me to tell him I made a mistake, I sinned, so he’ll know he’s right; but it’s life, I can’t change it, I don’t want to now, and if you really want to know I don’t even think he wants to—it happened, and if it changes everything, it’s changed, we have to live with it. That’s right, I said. I was making Head nervous. He was sweating anyway. Lydia! He said. You tell him, I said. Lydia! he said. I’m going in, I said. These damned foreign substitute parts! he said. Nothing fits.

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Anguish of Rule

Douglas Penick

Prince Shotoku Taishi (572-622) was the legendary hero who, at the beginning of literacy in Japan, made Buddhism and Confucian governmental principals two of the foundation stones of Japanese culture. He wrote the earliest commentaries on Buddhist Sutras and commissioned the first histories in Japanese. He is also credited with beginning the traditions of Noh theater, archery, tea Ceremony, sculpture and architecture, among others and deals specifically with the way culture began to emerge as the world began to seem less porous. I Where one is being led cannot be foreseen. The power or world into which we are being drawn does not contain a map or a pattern of control. The control of body, speech and world are not relevant. Has our striving and our struggle been all so pointless?

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Or is it an unfolding of realities ever more vast, complex, subtle, splendid, fathomless where limits we have held to are no more and our love might expand without touching on time or knowledge. There is no gain and loss. Will the universes encased within each seeming being finally pop open with new skies, new beings, new seas and new spaces? As trillions upon trillions of realms explode in passing. With insight beyond insight emerge the breakdown of control. II On the second day of the eighth month, the court requests Royal Prince Hasebe to assume the Imperial Dignity. He ascends the throne as Emperor Sushun. He makes his palace at Kurahashi. He is 68 years of age. He has heard the gods whistle and shriek. He has fought in battle. He has seen plagues. He has seen children die. He has ridden on horseback. He has known victory over his enemies He does not read but he has heard the words of the Buddha. He has loved women. He has many children, some of whom he cannot trust. He has felt the power of the ancestors when the three Imperial Treasures were bestowed on him. He knows the meaning of the seasons. He is old, but still clings to ambition, a will to dominate and a desire for ceremony. These cravings pain his sons and younger courtiers.

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Penick III He is trapped in a stone coffin, still alive. He tries to use his reason, but soon begins to thrash. He cannot stop gasping, sobbing, but forces himself to breathe slowly. He tries not to submit to madness. But terror pulses through his legs and arms. He presses upward, trying to lift the sarcophagus lid. His chest and heart throb. He is breathing his own air, baking in his own heat. All that has kept him alive, strength, intelligence, passion now turn against him. He kicks. He pounds his head. He shouts and cries. He understands he is trapped and this destroys any self-control. All the parts of his being that served him now turn on him and attack relentlessly like implacable demons. He screams and screams. He is the only one who can hear. Something ancient from deep within the earth. is transforming him. The end of the story of Izanagi and Izanami is happening inside him. (These two, brother and sister, lovers, were eternally youthful and limitlessly alive. Limitlessly fertile he engendered and she gave birth to all the phenomena of the world. But, in giving birth to the sun, her genitals burned and she dissolved into the realm of the dead. Desperately, Izanagi followed her down into the earth. There he saw her, now a rotting demon. She screamed. She was mortified and enraged that he saw her this way. She sent hordes of demons to tear him apart and kill their children. They chased him through subterranean caverns and tunnels. Only barely did he escape.) Now, monstrous, inhuman, terrifying, the spirits of the dead, vengeful and inasane, are coursing through him, seizing his throat, stomach, intestines, pulling at his veins and nerve. He is racing desperately in darkness. He cannot breathe. Their sharp nails cut him. His muscles cramp. He hears a river far

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Anguish of Rule off. A way of escape, he pushes to find it, screaming as he runs. He struggles and suddenly knows that escaping from this prison means his life is over. Attendants and guards run in, wake him. He sits up, screaming, covered with sweat. IV Emperor Sushun summons his young kinsman, Prince Shotoku Taishi. The Prince bows, sets his face between his hands extended on the black polished floor. He raises his eyes. He looks at the Emperor. He sees the face of a dead man, a man who will be killed. He warns the Emperor. “There is an assassin, even now. He doesn’t know what he is waiting to do, but he sharpens his blade.” The Emperor looks at the young man. It makes no sense. He feels a cold breeze. V To have the power to shape the world and to have that power function in a certain pattern, to have that pattern confirmed by beauty, by opulence is to know one’s true place and to maintain a place for all others. To have the possibilities of vast ambitions so stimulated, how could one not wish to build something that will reflect for all people and all time the order of the world of gods. VI The King of Paekche sends an architect with plans for a temple complex, and three craftsmen. The architect brings a small model of the shrine hall. This is the model for the temple’s central building. Emperor Suishin gives orders for this design to be built. Shitenno-ji will be a temple complex dedicated to the Four

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Penick Guardian Kings of the World. It will be the dwelling place of all governance and civilization yet to come. The nine buildings of the inner court will embody the virtues of a true ruler. At its heart is a five tiered pagoda built around a statue of Kwan-yin, embodiment of ceaseless compassion. The Kings of the Four Directions are placed in the temple’s four great gates in the four directions. To the east, stands an additional stone gate. It is the entrance to the Western Pure Land of Amitaeus, Embodiment of Boundless Light. Of the four principal buildings, the first is the Kyoden-in or Reverence Field. This is the shrine room with adjoining library and spaces to teach Buddhist practice, class rooms for the study of philosophy, science, music, architecture, and so forth. The second is the Hiden-in or Compassion Field, an asylum to house the helpless. The third is Ryoboin, a hospital for the ill. And fourth is the Seyaku-in, a dispensary where medicinal herbs are collected, processed and distributed. It is the Emperor’s command that this complex will be the model for all temples, for all governments and for the inner mind of all who rule. VII The Emperor sends Shotoku Taishi, to walk in the deep shadows of the forest of high timber in Tsunokuni Naniwa Province. There the Prince marks the land to be cleared. He chooses the tallest and straightest Cyprus trees and marks them. He makes a hexagonal platform of rammed earth. This will be the foundation of an eight-sided temple. The golden image, three inches high, of the Buddha of Golden Light will reside here. The tall gilded image of Avalokiteshvara, the world savior will reside here.

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Anguish of Rule He orders Korean craftsmen to cut the trees and begin constructing Shitenno Temple, the temple to the Kings of the Four Directions. He proclaims that in the future this place will be the capital of the realm. The Emperor proclaims that half the late Lord Mononobe’s servants are to be temple slaves. Half of the late Lord Mononobe’s land will be confiscated to support the temple. Tomi no Obito, the warrior whose arrow slew Lord Mononobe, is given the other half of the land and servants. Lord Soga joins the Prince in building Hoko-ji, a great center for the Buddha’s teaching and a memorial to the victory over Mononobe. It is said that the power of Lord Soga and even of Prince Shotoku Taishi make the Emperor ill at ease. VIII There is a vast invisible blade of glass; it cuts through the world and beyond the world. On the surface of this thin transparent plane, you see all that is conceivable, imaginable, perceptible. You are looking at a vast shimmering mural. Its beginning and end are unknowable. You may think of this transparent plane as consciousness or as awareness or as any other way of knowing. What appears on this plane is a reduction of vaster and more unknowable realities for which your mind provides no set of references. These are sights beyond the spectra you can see, music beyond sounds anyone can hear and patterns anyone can comprehend, harmonies beyond form, language beyond grammar and words, knowing beyond consciousness, intensities beyond the framework of your heart, brain, senses and nerves. The Buddha pointed at this transparent razor-edged plane and

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Penick beyond. A consort of the Emperor sang: Higher than the king’s house, Finer than silk. Indivisible. Ungraspable as smoke. IX In mid winter, hunters kill an immense wild boar near the palace. Feet tied over a pole, head hanging, blood dripping from the spear cut on the flank and from its nose, they bring it to the Emperor. He points to the animal and says: “When will those who are so busy shaping our world be killed as this boar has been killed?” He has the imperial armorers make many new weapons, X He is sinking into the body’s time It is more intensely equivocal than could have been imagined. He is not who he was, but all or so many of the people he was are now so much clearer to him, even if he is now connected to these predecessors by having the same name, a version of the same body, and memory that includes them. The connection of all these moments to this him who is in the process of leaving all that behind, of entering into ... what... Things are so vivid, but the framework is so unclear, dissolving perhaps. Suddenly it’s all slowed down. And he is slowing. He has to

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Anguish of Rule press inwardly, inwardly he’s slowing down. He feels sudden violence, a lust to cut through, to cut away, to destroy. To be an agent in the end. He is ashamed. He does not vibrate at the same pitch. The intervals and pauses are far clearer. He can see the light shifting in subtle alterations as a leaf trembles in the wind. The whole tree with its complex harmonics of swaying and return, differently articulated in high and low branches, the whole tree waits in front of him with a more intense kind of life, here offered to him. This intensity of presence and color now because he is vibrating more slowly and there is more space in the intervals for a different form of life and sentience to blossom and display itself. He is, he thinks, perhaps, impinging less, on the life that is flowing by. He is no longer moving forward to take hold of life. Amid the crackle of new and incomprehensible pains, life is moving away. Like a subtle membrane, a link connecting the living, a link that becomes half visible as life begins to move slightly away. It is an ungraspable vividness, uncertainty, sadness, deep sadness, membrane tearing. XI At the New Year, Emperor Sushun gives more swords, bows and arrows to his courtiers than was customary. A courtesan, resenting her declining favor in the Emperor’s eyes, sends word of all this to Lord Soga. She convinces Lord Soga that the Emperor is planning to have him killed. “Why would he hate me so?” Lord Soga asks bitterly. None reply. He decides not to leave his future to chance. Lord Soga sends a message to inform the court that he will

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Penick convey the taxes from the eastern provinces to the Emperor. Thus Lord Soga’s vassal gains easy entry to the court This vassal, the Korean, Koma Yamato Aye no Atahe, bows, rises, and races towards the Emperor. He draws his short sword. Before anyone can move, he cuts through the Emperor’s neck. Without stopping, he runs and escapes through the west gate. XII Emperor Sushun feels himself fall away from the palaces and temples, their courtyards, their painted screens, their secrets and promises. He falls back, his arms spread as he descends into the arms of death. A song comes to him that he had overheard. The women said that Shaman-Empress Pimiko sang this song. They were forbidden to sing it to any man. Any man who heard it would die. He tries not to listen, but cannot help himself. Cold raindrop falling. Warm blue wave, Flickering star. I have been sound: Sound of Ahh, sound of Eeee, Sound of K and Mmm and Nnn. I have been torchlight And I have been a bridge that crosses 60 streams. XIII At the same time, Lord Soga’s daughter, one of the Emperor’s concubines, begins a secret affair with the assassin, Koma Yamato Aye no Atahe. Their love enfolds them in a world where nothing but love is real. When the Emperor is killed, they run off together. Koma then marries Lord Soga’s daughter, but they have their servants spread rumors that

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Anguish of Rule she has died. For a while Lord Soga believes it. Within months Lord Soga has uncovered the truth. He himself kills Koma. Emperor Sushun’s body is buried in the Missagi on the hill of Kurahashi where he lived as Emperor for four years. It is just out of sight of the temple he ordered to be built XIV It is said that in ancient times, things were mutable. Gods and spirits became seas, mountains, skies. Men and women became animals, fish, trees. Children moved between the realms. The aged easily visited the dead. The passageways between the realms, now marked only in words, was then imprinted on land, water and sky.

regarding arts & letters

85


All The Punctuation in Ulysses

Mika Taylor

——,,.,,.:—.,:—,!,!.,.,,,.,,,,,..—!.‘:—,,:.,.,...,.,,...—,,..,?, .,..—!.,!,.,,,.‘.—:,.,‘?..?,,:—?!,.—,,.—,?—?.—,‘?..‘.,!..,,.‘. ,:,-..—,.?—!.?—,.‘..‘,....—!.,‘,:—...,,:—‘!:.,‘?,.—!.‘:?...,,! . . ! ! . . . . — ! . ‘ . — , . ‘ ‘ . — , . — , , , , . ‘ . . . ... . . — ! . , ! , , . , , - . , , . , , , , , , , . . . . . — , !..?—,..—,...,.‘.‘,.‘.—,.‘.—‘,..‘...—,,...‘.!...—,,!,...?..—‘,. ....,‘.—,.!,:—.-.‘,.—‘,,?.....—!.‘‘..,,..‘..—.‘.‘???‘‘.‘.:,.,!,!!, , ‘ . ‘ . ‘ ! ‘ ! . , , ‘ , . ... ... . — , . ‘ . — ? . . ‘ . ? , . . — ? . — , ? . ‘ . ‘ . , . , , : — ‘ ? : — ? ? ‘ . . ? ? —,,...—?.?.—,,,‘.‘.—?.??.—,,‘?..‘.‘.‘.?,‘.‘...‘.‘‘.!.‘..,,:—. —?.—,..—,!..,..,,.:—,?—‘,.:—.?,,..,:—‘,.‘..:‘..,..,.,..,,.,.‘:, .:...,:‘.?:,,,..:.,:.....,,.‘.,,,,,,.,,....,..:.!!,!.—!‘.,.,‘,.—,,...‘. —‘,,.—,‘,...—.‘.,?,.—,.—?.??.—,.—,.‘..,:,‘,,!,!,‘!.,,.?,?,,,.. . . . ‘ , . : , . — ‘ , . , , ? . , . — ? . — , . , ‘ ! , : — ! — ‘ , , . , , . , . . . , . — ‘ , , ... , ! ! , ! , , . , . . , , .‘?,,‘...—?..—,.‘.—,!..:—.—!,....,‘.,:—..—‘,.,,,,‘?,,‘:—,.. —,,.:—,,.,‘,,‘.,.—‘,,,...,:—,,‘?—,.—?.,?—,,.,,.‘.—!,.?!,,: — ‘ . , ... . . — , ! — , ‘ , . , . ‘ . — ‘ , , . . — ? , . , ! . — , , . — , ? . — , . , . . . , . , . , , . , . , . , , ,.,:.—,‘,,.—,,..—,,‘.,,‘.—,?.—,‘,.—,..,,:.‘,‘‘,‘..—?.—,?.,. —,.?—,,.,?—,.—‘,,.—,,‘‘.‘‘.—,..,.,‘?—,,,,.:—?,,‘?.—,?,.,‘. ‘ , . , , . — , , . , . , :— ! , : — , . . . — ‘ , . — , , , . . , . , ‘ : — , , . : — , . ‘ . . . . — , , , . — , . : —,?:—.—,.:—.....‘.—.‘:—,.—,,,..—?.,,:—‘,‘..:—.?—?..?.‘, .—,,.—,,.‘.—,,.:—‘‘..‘?..,,:—..—‘,.,,..,‘...?,...—‘,..:—,? —‘,,.,.,.,,:—.,,,,..:—?—,,...—,!,!:—?—,.—,.:—,.?—,,..—?. —,,.‘..,,:—‘,,?—,,.—,.?—!..‘.‘‘.—?,.?,,‘:—,!!—‘,..,,.—,. —,,.‘,‘?..—‘,,.,,,.‘,,.—,....,,,,.‘,,:—‘.‘,‘..‘..—‘‘‘.‘,,,:—,,!,.

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‘ ‘ ... , , ! , , , ‘ . , , : — ‘ , . ‘ . ‘ , . , ‘ ? ? ? — , . — , , ? — , , . — ‘ , ? . , . . — ‘ , , . . . — , , . . , , , , . — , , , . ‘ , ‘ ? ‘ . ‘ , ? — , , . , , . , . , , , ! . , . . . . . . . . . — , ... . — , . , . — , , . — ? . , . . — , ,.—?.?—,,,..—,.,...‘::,.,,:.:,,,,‘,...:,,‘,.,!.!!—‘,‘,.‘.‘,‘,.,:,. —‘..—‘,.‘.‘..,,...,,.,.—,?—..—?...—,?...,,.,,.—‘,,..—,!.—., ?—.—..—?—.—!.,:—.,.—,.‘.,..—,?—...,.—?.—,...—‘,,.—,, ,...—,,...,.,,:—...—‘,,.,,.—,..—,.....‘...,,...,‘,,..—,,?—,.—. ?—,.—.?‘...,,,‘.,,.‘?—,...—,,.—,.:...,...—,,.?—,?—,.,,.—.,. ?‘...‘.,.,.—,?,...,.,.—,,‘,.—,,...,.:...:..:,,,.:,,,.—,.,..—,?..‘. - . , . ? , , ‘ . ? . , . ‘ . . . ? ? , . — , . — , , . . — ? , . -- , . — , . — , ? — , . , . . : — , , , , , ... , . ‘ , , . . : , , : ‘ , , , . . . : . , , : . : — , ... — , . ‘ . — , ? , . . , . . ‘ . . ‘ , ‘ . , ‘ . . , , . . . — ? . — , . , . — , ..—?.,,.,:—,?,.—,,.—,.—,:,:.‘.?—,?—,.‘..:—,?.,,:—..:—!,,. .,..,,,,‘....:.—,,,...—?.—,.,.—?.—,.:,‘.,.,..??‘.:,.,.:,,,,,,..‘‘. .:.,,.,,::.,,,,.—??—,..,.:..,,....,,::,..—,.—,.,..—,‘.—,.,.—! — , . . . . . . — ? . — , , . — , , . ‘ :— ? ? : , . . . , . , : . , , : . . . — , , . . , , . — , , . . ‘ : : , ‘ , , . ‘ , ,.,,.—,,.....,....—,.‘‘.—,,,.—,..‘,,..:.—‘,.‘..‘..—,.,:...?.—‘, ,.‘...,..?.—,.‘.—,..,,.?‘?‘.::,.—,,.—!.‘...—,,..,.—..?.?,,,,.,., .,.,.,,,,,,,,,‘..—,,.,.—‘,...—,,.:,.—,.‘‘.‘.‘?.,..,,‘....—,...,‘. — , . — , , . . . . , ! , ! ... ! ... ! ... . . . — , . , , . . . . , . — . , , . . , , , . . , : ‘ , ‘ , ‘ , , . , . , ‘ , . — , . ... , , , . ! ! : . , , ‘ , . ‘ . : . , , . ‘ ? . , . , , , ‘ . — , , . , . . — , . ‘ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . — ‘ , ? . . ‘ . . . . ‘ , . . . . . . . . — , . . . . , , . . . ‘ . , ... ... ... . — , , . . : , . ‘ . ‘ . . . . , . . — , , . ‘ ‘ . . — , , , , ? — , . . . ..,,.:,,.,,...:.,,.—?.—?...?.—,,..:.?—,.,.,:—.!!!—?.—,,...—, . . . , , , . , ‘ , ‘ , . . , . . . . . — , , ... — , , . , . . — , . ? . — ? . . . . — , . — , . . . . . — , , . . — , . , . . ‘ . . . ? — ... — , . . . — , , , . . — , . , . — , , , . , . : . . : . — ! . , . — . — , , , . , . — , . , , . ? .?.—,?,.—,..,,,.—,.‘.,.:,.,,,.,,:..:..?,..,..?,.,....,..,:.:...!‘,!.. : . , . : . ? , , , . . ‘. ‘ , ? , . . . , : . . . . ? . ! . . : , . ‘ , : , . , , . ‘ , ‘ . , . , , , . . . ? , . , . . ? . ! . . , : , , . : , . ..,,,,,,..,.,.,‘...??.‘:.,,,,.,.,.,,,.‘.?,..,...‘?‘.??‘?‘,?,,?,,!.,.!,!., . , . : , ! : . , . — ‘ , . — . . . — . , , . . . — , . , . : ‘ . . — , ? — , . ? — , . ‘ . . — , ... — . . . ! — , ... — ‘ . . — , . — , . . ? . ? ? . . ‘ ! ‘ . , , . . , , , . . , , . . , . . ‘ . ? . , , . , . , , , , . ,— , ? ! , , . ( ! ) , , . ,!,‘,,,..!.!.!,,,.,..(),,()().,..,‘?..,!,,.,!!:!!,???,?.,,.!!-:-..?,.,., . , , , ? , . . , . ... . , , , , , . , , ‘ . , . , , . : . ; ; . : . . . ‘ . ? . - . . — ? — ‘ , . , , . , . ‘ , , ‘ . , . . . . . . — ‘ , . , . ‘ . - . — ? — , . . . . , . . , ‘ ? ‘ ? . . . . , : , . . , , . : ; ‘ ‘, . , . . . : . , , , . , ‘ . . . ? : . ‘ , , . . . . . . ! , ..?,‘..,?,‘..,‘.,?.,:!!,,.?;,;,:—..‘‘.‘‘‘..,.,.,,.,,.,.,,,.‘‘,,.‘,,.,,.. ‘,..!...?.,,,,!.,?.,,.:!.,‘.,,,,,,,.,.‘‘..,,..,,,?..,,,.,,?.,,.,,.,...‘,,. ,.,...:.‘.,.,,,,.,.,,.,,,..,.‘.,.,,,,,..,,.‘,,,,-‘,.,,.,--,.,,‘..,‘?.,..?. : , ‘ . . , . , , . , ... . , . , . . , , . , , ? , . . , , . . , , . , , . , , , . ? . . , — , . : . . , . , . ‘ , , ‘ . . . . , . . , . ‘ . . , ,......‘.‘.‘,...,,.,?....,,,.....,..?,,.,.,,.,,‘,,,.,.,.,,,.-:.‘,,..,,..,‘, . , ? : . ‘ , , , , ‘ , , , , , . ‘ . . ‘ . . ... ‘ . ? , . , . ? ‘ . . , . . . . . . ‘ ! ‘ ? , ! , , ? . , . . . ... ... . : : . . . , . , , . . , ,.‘.,,,.,,,.,.,.,,,,,,,,..,,,,.,,,.,‘.‘..,,,,,,‘.,,,.,!‘.—!,!,..‘.,,.,,..: .,.,,,,,,,,.?......,...:.,.....,.,.:....,,.‘.‘‘.,‘,,,!‘.‘:.,...,..:..,:,... ?.,‘,,.,,,,.,,.,,,,,..,.,,,..,,,,‘..,?.....‘.:.,.,::,,,..,.‘....‘.,.?,,,.‘ ,,,,.,,.,,???..:..:,‘.,,,,,,.,!,...?.,,,,.,,.?.,,.?‘...,.,:.,.,.?....,,.? ..,.,..‘,,...!....‘,.,,...,‘,.‘.,.‘:.,!,:‘.:‘..?...,,,...,,,,,..::,,,.,,.:, ,:.,,.,,,.,,.::,.,;,,.,,,,.;,,:.,,,...,...,,.,........,,..,,.,.,.,..:...... ,?.,,,,...?..,,.,,...,,.,...,...,....,,?..,.,,?...?.,‘..,....,.,,,,,.— —.,,,,‘..,....:,:.‘..,.,,.....—!—,,,.,.....,.:,,.,.—,.—!..........? ,.—,.......—!.,,..,‘,.—!,..‘.?,,.,..,...:‘.,.‘..,.?,.?..,...:.:—‘..: —‘?:—..‘.,,.......!.‘..,.,..,,‘....:...:‘............,,,...,.‘...,,(?),

regarding arts & letters

87


Taylor

88

.‘...‘‘..::.,‘..,,,,,‘,...,,,,..,...,..:.,,.....:.,,,‘...:...:..,.:..:-.‘‘. . , , . , : . ‘ ‘ : . . . . . . . . , , , . . ‘ ? ‘ , ‘ ? ? , ‘ ‘ . : . , ‘ . : — , ‘ . — . — , . —’ . ? , . , , . . . . ‘ . . . , , . ..‘,??....‘.‘.....?.......‘,,,..,:,.,,‘.:..,?:.‘.........,..,.:.:....,,.:: ,,,..,,,,,,‘,.,,.,.,.—,,.,,.—,..,?.,..,...:...,..:...,,‘.—,..‘.,,,. —,....::.—,,.—,...?,.:‘..,..,,.:....,,....,..:,.,?.....‘...‘.,,,.,,,., .,.::.,.:,,,.,,.‘.?‘..‘.‘....,...,.,.,:,,.,,.::,,..,..,.‘,..,,,,...:‘:...,. ,:.,.,...‘....?-.,,,:..,,..,.,,,.,,.......—!.—?...—,,...—?.—?,.,. —,..—,.‘.—,.:,:.:—!—?—.:.,.,..‘.‘......,.:::::‘..,,.‘..,:...,.,,. .‘.......,‘!...:..?,,,,..,..—!.,.,‘.,...—?...—,,.‘.—?—..,,‘.,,... —?,:—?—,,.‘..?,:,.—:...—,...:....,,.—,..‘.,,.—?.—,.?.—?—. ‘ ‘ ? — , , . ‘ : . . — , ! . . , . . . ‘ . . : . . . . . . . . . ‘ . . . ‘ . . . . . ‘ . ‘ ... — ? . — , . ‘ . ? — . ? — . ‘ . .,.‘,.:‘.—,,,......:..?.:..:...::..—,,.,.,..,.—‘,.?—!.,,,‘......,.., ...,.?,,....‘...........‘(‘)..,.......,...,...‘.,,.........‘.....,....:.,:. ?,.......:.....‘....,...‘,,..,.,,,,,..:...,,,,.,,,.,..:‘.‘....,,.‘.:....,., ..‘.,,,.,........,:.,..—!.‘.:....‘..,..,,.,:—,,..:.........,....,?:.,..‘ ..........,?..‘..,..‘......,.‘..?,....,.,....,....:‘.,‘,....,.,,,,.,,,.‘.,. .!......,......,,,......?...,....?..?..?..‘...‘‘.:,,,.....?.?........‘.,. :.:,,,.,.:..,..,,:,,.?..‘.:.!!!!!!.:,.!‘,,‘,..‘..‘,,.,.‘.!‘..,.:‘.,.,::,.‘. ..‘‘........,..,,,.:,,....‘,.........,::,..:,,,,..,‘...............?,,.‘:., ,??‘.,...?.:...‘..?.,,.:......-...—?.:,.....,/..,..,.‘‘?.:.,‘..:......‘ ‘ : . ‘ : : . : . . . : . : . ‘ . . , . . : . , . , ‘ . . : . ? . ‘ . . . . — , . ? — , ‘ . . — ‘ ? — . ? — , ‘ . : — ... ? ‘ ... — , , . , . . — , . . ? ‘ . . — ... , . — , ‘ . , ? . ? . ? — . . . , , , , , , . , , . . . . . . . . — , ‘ , . ‘ . ‘ . . . .,....‘.?—:!?.,.:...?....—?.‘?.::.—,.‘‘..—‘?.‘,.,,.?.‘..,.‘.,.!!.! .........,?—,,..—,‘..,.,::,.—,?‘‘.—,,.,.:‘?.—.‘...‘,..—,.‘,,-. — ? ‘ . , . ‘ ? . . . . . . . . . ‘ - ‘ ... — ‘ , ‘ , . . ‘ . . ‘ , . — , , . ‘ . . — , , . . — , . — , ‘ . , ? ‘ ‘ , . ‘ . ‘ , ?—‘,,.‘.—,‘.,.‘.,...‘.—,.‘...‘...,,..,,....:..,‘:...‘?‘...‘.‘..?,.‘() .‘.,‘.........!..:..?.,?..‘!‘!,.,.!!‘‘.!,!,!!,....‘‘.,.,..!...:.......‘..,, ,.....:.,,.-.‘.....,,.,,....‘..‘.?..‘..??..?...??...,?.....,,..,..,,..... ...-..,.‘‘.....:,..:.......::,.,?...,?.:....,.,.‘.?......?.,..,......::.., .,,:,,,...::.:..,.,:,......,..,.,,,,.:.,..?..,.:.,,,..,..‘.............‘... ........?::.‘‘.‘.‘,?,.,,..,..,.:...?...,..,,.,,(?)....:.,....?:.....‘:.:. .,,.,...,,.:‘:.....,‘.‘,...,,..‘......,,,.......,,,..‘..:...?:....::,.?.... ...‘,,..,.,.....,‘,‘.‘.,,‘::,.,?:.:..‘‘‘().‘::..:‘,.......?,:.,.‘.?,‘..... , , : . . : . ‘ : . , . . . , , , . . . , . ? . . ‘ . . . , ‘ ? , , . ? . . . . , . . . , , . : — , ... . . . . ? . , . . . , . . . . . , . . . ..??...‘......,,.....:.‘?:.........:.:—,,.(,!):,,...:.......?...,,‘(!)(! ).,..‘.‘..‘.,,..:‘:.‘..?...?,.‘...‘,.....,..,,‘.?...,.....‘....?...,,..... . . . ‘ . . . . . . . . : . . . . . . . . . . — , ? — , . , , . . — , , ... . — , . . , , , , . : : : . . ‘ , ? . , . . , . . ? ‘ . . . ................—,,..?—,.,.‘‘.?—,...—‘,..—,,.,,.—,.,,.‘:—,.‘?‘ ?.,!....‘...,‘?..—‘,.?,.‘.‘..—,.—..,...—,..—‘?.—,..,:‘.—‘,.,.‘ ..,............,,..:...:,,::..‘‘.:.,?,?......‘....‘..‘.,,.:,,..,,,,.,,:,:,, .,,,,.,.—,.—,.,:,.—?.,....:.......‘................,:....,::‘..,..,.., ,....—?.—,...,.—‘,.....,,.—‘,,.—?—.—?,.,,,,.,:—?!—,..—,,, ,,‘,..::..,...,‘..:,..‘...—‘,...‘.‘,.:—‘.‘.,‘‘...‘‘,.................,., ‘.........—?.—,,.....!!,‘.....,:.,.,.—,.—,,‘.?..—,,??—,..,,:—‘ .,?—,......—,,‘.—?,.—,.‘.—?.—,.—‘,.‘..—‘?—‘.—?.—,....!. ....,..‘.‘.!,,....,..‘........—,.—,.—,.‘.,,.—‘‘,.—‘...—,..—,,,., ,‘.—,.,,.—,.‘..—‘?.—,.?—...—,,..‘,:,,,,,,,?‘?,,......‘:...?.?..

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All the Punctuation in Ulysses ...‘.........‘‘.‘???......‘,,‘:.:,.,..?......‘.‘..‘.‘.?—?,.—‘,.,.?—? . — , . . . . : : . , . , . ? . . . . . . . : . : . . : . ? ‘ . . . . . . . . , , . : — , ? — , , . . ‘ , ... — ? — , . . . . —,..?—,.,‘....,.—,...‘.....‘.:,:.—...‘,,....,!.‘.....,......:....‘.. :.....?.,,..,.?‘.,?‘..—,.,,‘,.—,.:—!,,‘.—,.‘.,:—,.‘.—‘‘.—?.—. ‘ ? — ? . ‘ . — , , ‘ ... — ? . ? — , . ... — ! . ! . — , , ... : — . — ‘ ! . ? — ! . ! . . — , . ... — , , ‘ . ‘.—,,...—‘?.—,.‘.‘.—!!—,..—,,‘..—!,.!‘.‘.—,..—,...:...... —,,.—,..—,...-..,,,‘,,‘,,.?........,........—,..‘,‘.‘,,.........‘‘.. .—,.‘......—,.—,,.,.—,.—,,..—,.—,.,,.‘....‘.....‘.......,....,.‘ .,,.........‘,.....:.........—,,.—‘,.—,...—,,.,..?..‘..!......‘..... ..‘-..:.—‘?,,,..—,.—!‘,.!!,.......:,,,...,,...—‘‘,..—,...—,,,,.,. ‘?—,,..—,.—?,.‘?—,‘,.—,,‘‘.—,‘,.!—‘,,..—!.!....:..‘.....,.... —‘,.‘.,...‘....?‘,....:..,:.:..,....,,,.,,,..,.‘..‘‘‘........,,....,... —,.—,.—?.,?—,,..‘..,,,,,.,.:....,..,‘,,,.‘.::..—,..—,.....—,. —,.‘...‘..,,....‘..‘...........‘......,.,,,.:.,,....‘.,.:.‘.,,,...,:..?.. ,...‘?,...,..:,.?......:.,,.‘,‘,.‘,....:..?,--..:—.—?.?—,.‘...—!.. ?‘..—?.—,...—?—.‘‘.—,..—,.—,...........‘...?...........,..:,:. —,?,.‘.—.‘?—,...—,?—,.—!.?—,,...—,,.?—,,‘...—‘,...—?.,? —‘,...!?...‘.?.?,.,..,,..,,.,,..,,‘.‘?,....-....:.....:.—,.......,..?. . . . , : . ? . ‘ . : . ‘ . . . ‘ . ‘ . . . . ‘ : . — . . . . , ... , . . , . . : , , , , , , ‘ . : . . — . . . . . , . , , . - - . . . . . . , ‘ . — ‘ , . ‘ . — ‘ , , , ‘. . , ! — , , . ‘ . . , , . . — ‘ , . — , . . . — , . . — , . . . . . — , ‘ ? . . , . , : . . ..‘.:—,...:—.‘.—,.?...,.:.:,,.:.....,!.!!......—,.?.‘..—,.—??.. —?...—,,,,,.‘.—,,.‘..,,,‘...—?.?‘?,,..—,,,‘..—‘,,?.—,..‘..,,.. —‘,..‘.:—.—,.‘.‘.—,,?—,...—,,...:...:—,,,.‘,,.,,.—‘,.—,.. — , . ‘ : . ‘ . . , ‘ , . : ‘ : . . . . ? ‘ . . . ‘ . . . . . . . . ... . ‘ . ‘ . . . . . ? , . . . ‘ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . , . . . ‘ . ?.:.:..,....‘...,,,..,,,..,,,.......,..............:.......()...‘.‘,,.....‘ ........—-?.—,....,.,....‘.?‘?‘...,.‘...,......,!?!...,.‘.‘.......‘.,., ,..‘...‘.?‘,‘.........‘.‘.,.:.......,..........,..‘..‘.:..,.‘....?......‘.‘ ...?!..:.‘....:,..‘...?..‘..,.,,...?!,!,:,.......‘...,...,,..,,..,..:.—,. ? ‘ . — , . . ‘ ‘ . . — , . . . . . . . . . , ‘ . . , . , ‘ . , : . : . — , , , ... . — . , , . ? — ‘ , . ‘ . ? , . — , , . , ! ‘.??..?..,?.—,!.,,,...,,..:--..:..,,,...--,,..,:....,,.—‘,..—,.,.‘: —....—,.‘,..,,,,,‘...?...‘.‘.....‘....,...,...‘....‘..‘‘.....,..,.,..... .!...-,.:.....?..!...?,,.,,:....!..‘,.?‘.!..!....,.::.,..?.,‘?......‘?... ........?.,,....‘.....‘..‘..‘.:,.:....‘...............:.,.,..,,,..‘...,,.., ..:...,.,...—,,..—,..—,,.,..—‘,..—,..,,..,......!‘,,,,,,,,,,,‘.‘: —!—,!,,.—,!.‘‘,,..,,,,,,,,.‘.‘.—,..—,?,‘.‘.,,,,‘.‘..—‘,,.—,,,,. —,.‘..,,,‘:—.‘.‘.,,.:.,..,,,,.—‘?.‘::....::.,.:.—,.—,..,...-,-!—, .,,..,:—!:—,.,,.?..,.‘.:........,:.,..‘,.....‘,...,....‘.‘.‘.,?‘....... .‘...,...,,.-‘,...—,,,..,.,,..—:,..—,,.—?.—,.‘.—,,.‘.‘.‘...‘.—, ,.,.,?.—,..—,..,...‘....,,.—,,..,,‘,,....?,,:,..()—,....,,...—,,.: .?‘?.—,,.,,..,,.,.?.‘..—,.?—,...‘.,......—,.‘...,,....?.,‘?........ .....,...,:—.‘‘?‘.‘‘?.—,?.—.‘?—!..—‘,,,‘.—!—,.‘...::...,,,.,.: ,‘,,,..‘...,......,...,!..,‘.,‘....‘.‘.......?.‘....?..‘..?,..,,.?::.::... ...‘?...,—,,.,‘,:—,‘?,,:—,,‘,‘,‘,,‘‘.,?.‘?—,.,,,:—.!!—,,,.—,.‘ .,,....‘,..,,.....,.....—,.—?.—,..—?.—,..—‘.—?..—,..—,..‘,. .—,.—,.—..—.—,?—.?..‘..,...‘,..—.—‘.—?..‘,.—,..‘...‘...... . . . . . . . . . . . . ‘ . . . . — , ‘ , . ... — ! . ! — , , , , ... — , . ! ? ? — ‘ , ‘ , , , , , ... — , . . — ... — ! , .!‘,..,,.,.‘.—!..,‘?.........,,.:—?—!.—,!.—,,,..—!..—,,.,..‘‘,.

regarding arts & letters

89


Taylor

90

—,?.—!,.!!—,?.—!.—,,...‘:—..—!.!—!.,.,!,,.—,.,,.—,,...—? , . — ‘ , . . , . ‘ . — , , . . ‘ , . ? . — ... , ... ... . ‘ . — ? . . . . . — , . . . , . — ‘ , . , . — , . ‘ . , . — , , . , . . — , . — , . . . . ‘ , , : — , . — , , . ... ? , ... ? ! ?... ! ... . ‘ . . . — , , , . — , , . ? ‘ . — , . , : — . —,.,,...‘.,,:—.—‘‘,,‘..‘‘..,,,.—!..—,,...‘‘,,.—‘,,..—.?,.‘,,. —,,‘.,!.....‘.—‘?.?—?,.‘...—,.‘?,,..—‘,.—,..‘,,.?....‘.—,,.,., : —’ , ‘ . , . — ? ? . . , , : — ! — , . . ‘ . . . . — ‘ , . . . ‘ . — , , . ‘ , . , , , . , : — ? , : . : . : . . , , ( ) . : . . — , . , ‘ , . — ‘ , . . ‘ . . — , . — ? . . ‘ . . ... — , . ? ‘ , , . , , . — , ! . — , ‘ . . — ? , . . . ? ? ? : — ! ? , , , . , . — ? . . — , . — , . ? ? , , . — , , , . ? ... ? . — , , . . ... — , , , . . , ! ‘ . ! . , , . ‘ , . — ? . — , , , . ‘ . . . ‘ ! ‘ , . . . . , . ‘ ! — , . . ‘ , . . . — ? . — ‘ , . ... — , . . . . . : . . ! ! ? ? ? . ! ! , . —!.!!.!.,.!.,,.,..,,...—,‘,.—!..,,!‘:‘‘.?‘.?,...—‘,.‘.‘..—!.?—?‘ ‘ . : — . ? . ! ‘ . ‘ , . — ! . . , , . , , ‘ ‘ ‘ . — , , . . — , . . ‘ . ? . . — , . — , . , ... — , . — , . — , . . — , ‘ . . ‘ . . — ! . , ! . . ! ‘ . — , . . . . ... . . . — ! . - - . ! ! . , . , ‘ . — , ‘ . . — , . . ‘ . — , , . . ‘ , . , ..?‘..,,,,,.‘..—,..?.—,,..,..--.,?—--,‘..‘,,..?—,?.—,,...—?.‘? ‘ , ? — , . , ‘ . . ? ‘ . . . ? . ? . — , ‘ , . ? . . — ‘ , , . — . . , . — . . . ‘ . . — ? ... ?... ‘ ?... ... ... . —--,,,,,.....?‘..—,.—,.‘,?,—,..—,,..—,..,,.,:—,‘..—!.‘......‘ . ‘ . ‘ . ! ! — , , - - . — ?... ?... , ‘ . . — , ? . . — , ‘ . — , ‘ . . — , , ? — , . . ‘ . ‘ . - - . , ! — ‘ , . ! ! , , , ‘ . ? , . ! . . ? ? ? , . ? ? . , , , , . : , , . ........................ .................. .... , , . , , , , , , ‘ , , , , , . , , , : : . — , ‘ . ... . . ‘ , , . — , , , . , , . ? , , ‘ , ‘ . ? . — , . . ? . . ? ! — , . . ‘ , . . , . — ? . , : , . . . — , , ... . . .‘:—.,...?.,?—?.,—,..‘,,..—.—,.!...‘....,,,...‘,:—:,,,,,..—!. — , ‘ . — ? . . ‘ . , , . . . . ‘ . , : — . — , . . ‘ . , : . . ? . . . . . . .’ . , . . ? ? ? ‘ . — , , , . . . . , , ( ) , . : —..—,..‘,,.—,,‘..?—,,,,‘..,.,,,,...‘:—,,...()...‘‘‘,.,.,:—‘.,,... ,.:—,:.,,.,....?—...,!‘.—,?:.:,,.:,,..,,.,::,,.—:,,,.,:.:.:..:—,,, ,.‘,.,.—!..‘:—.————————————,...—,....‘,....:..—,. ? — . ? ‘ . ‘ , , , , . — . , . . . ?... : ‘ ! , : — , ? , . . ‘ , , ‘ : — , ! — ! , . . ? . — . . ‘ . ‘ . ? ‘ . . . . ‘ , , : —.,.,.—,,.,‘?.!...,:—!.,..—,.—?,..,:—!.—,,,‘.—?.—,......,!. . . — ‘ . . . . . — , . — , ... ‘ . , , , , , , , , . . . . , . . — , . . . ‘ ? . , , , . , , . . ‘ . — , , . ‘ . — , . . , , , : —!!—!!—?,.‘:—!!—,,,,..‘,.‘.,.‘..,‘?.‘.‘..,?...—?......‘.......? — , , , ‘ . ‘ , . ‘ ... . . . . . — , . , . . — , , , . ‘ . ‘ . . , . . . . . ‘ . . — . — , . ‘ . !— ‘ — ‘ , . ‘ . . , ? — , . : ‘ , ‘ , ‘ ‘ . ... — , . . ‘ . — , . — ! . . . . ‘ , — , , . , , . . ‘ , , , ‘ . — ? . . . . . — , , , . . . . . . ‘ . ,!,,,,,,,,,,.,,,,,,,,,.?——?—?.?,..—,,,.,.:.—,..—,..—,..,..‘... ‘ . — , . ‘ . . , — ? — , . , . — , , ‘ . , , . . . . . . . . . . . . . , ‘ , . . ... ? . . , . ? . . , , , , , , , ‘ . . . ! ! ! ! ! ! .......,.‘......‘.?...,..‘‘.‘‘.......‘‘,..?....‘..‘............:‘.,‘..,.‘.. .‘...,........!:.,,.,,..?‘...‘........,..‘..,.‘.,.:....,‘.—!!..:....?,,,. . . . . . , , , , . . . . . . ‘ . . . . . . . ? ? . ‘ / - . . ? ‘ , , . . . . . . . ‘ . . . . . . . . . ... ? ! ? ... . , . ‘ . ‘ ? , . , . . . . .‘...‘..‘:,..!.‘..‘...,‘..‘.,‘.......?.,..::.:.....‘.,..,,.,.:,‘.‘.,,,...‘. .....‘‘..‘,.‘‘.?.,,?‘,,,‘,....,..??....,..:.,.....‘..,.?,‘.....?..:‘.‘..: ‘ ‘ . . . ‘ . . ‘ . . . . . ‘ . . ‘ . ‘ . . , . . . . . . . ‘ , . ‘ . : . . . . . ‘ . . . . ? , . ‘ ‘ . . ? . ... ? ‘ . . , ‘ ‘ . ‘ , . . . . ‘ . . . ‘ . . . , . . . . , . . ! . . . . : . . . . . . . . ... — , , ? — , , ? — . ? ‘ . — , . , . — ! ‘ ? — . ‘ . . ? — ‘ , . ? . — ‘ , . ... — , . . , . ‘ , ? . — , , . ‘ . . — , . . , . , . . ‘ ‘ . ... — , ‘ . ‘ . : : . — ? . ‘ . — , ‘ ! . ‘ . ‘ . . . ‘ . ‘ . , , , , ‘ . ? , . . ? . . , . : . ‘ . . . . . . . . ‘ ? ‘ ? : . . ? ... — , . ‘ . ? . , , . — ? . . . . . — , . , . . — . — ! . . — , . . — ? , . . .? — . . : , . . ‘ . — , . , . — ‘ ‘ . ‘ , . . , . . . : . . . . . , . . . , . . ‘ . : . , . . ‘ . ‘ , ...:..—?.—?..‘..?..—.—.‘-..‘.—,.‘.—,..‘,.—-,...!!—‘,.!!‘.. — ... , : — ! . . . , . — , . . ! — ‘ ? . ? — ‘ , . ! — , . . . — , . . . , ‘ ? — , . . ‘ . . . , . . . , , . . ! . . . . ..:.‘‘..‘.........‘.,..,.........(.)....,.,...(..)...‘.‘............,....‘. .:...?!..‘.........,.!.......,...‘.....!..‘..,...‘?....‘......,,!,.!!‘:.,.. ...:...........,..‘.,.....,..,‘.‘.....‘,.....,...?..‘..,..,..,,..‘.,,....,, ....‘.:.....‘..‘,‘?..:..‘..!‘.‘.,..‘...‘.......—!—!—‘.:...‘.::..‘.....

re:al


All the Punctuation in Ulysses . . . . . . ? ? . . . — , ? — ‘ ... ‘ . . — , . . — , . . . ‘ . . ‘ . . . . . . ‘ , . . . : . . . . ‘ . . . . . . . ‘ . . . . . . . , . ..,,‘.,,,..,:,:,........,,,.,,:,.,,,,,..,.....,.......,,.‘.,.-...,:..‘.:... ‘ . . . ‘ , . : . . . ‘ . ‘ . . - . . ‘ . , , , . . . . . ‘ : ‘ . ‘ . . . . , . . . . . ‘ : . . . ‘ . . . ‘ . . . — , . ... . . . . ‘ : . . , . . . ..:?.,,.?.:.:..‘...,,...‘..‘......?........:..,,..‘.‘.‘..‘.,.‘?.........?. .‘‘..‘..‘.‘.‘.,,‘..:.‘.......:..‘...:..‘....‘:‘?.....,,..::::,,..,........‘ ,..,..‘-,..........,,.‘.,........‘....,?.,,,.,.::...?...??....‘..?.??.... ,,,.......,,,...:..!.....:..‘....:......‘.‘..,,.......,,,,......,......‘,., .,,.,:,,,,.—,!—!—,!—!—!.:,..,,.,,,,,,...‘.:::...‘..?...‘!!!....‘. —.—...,,,,‘,.‘.,.,,.....,!.,.—.—........‘,......,,.:.,,,.....?,?.: —.‘....‘....—.—.,.......!!...‘‘.,,‘,,,.‘..‘...‘.......‘.,.‘.‘?..‘..... . . . . ‘ . . . . , . . ‘ , . . . . , . . , ‘ . ‘ . . ‘ . . . . ? . . ? — , , . — , . — ‘ ? — ... . ‘ ... . . . ? . . ‘ ? . ! . . ‘ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ‘ . . . . . . . . . — ? — , . . . . . , , . . . . . , . . — ? — , ... , . , ? — , . . — ? . . . . . . . . — ‘ . . — . , ‘ . ‘ ? . — ? — . , ... , . . . . . . — , ? — . . . . . — ? . , ‘ , . . — , , , . ? ‘ ? ‘ . . . . . . . . , , , . . , , . — , . ‘ . : . . . — , , . , ... ‘ . , . — , , . . , ? , , . , . ‘ . . . — ‘ , . ? — ‘ , , . . — ‘ , . , , , . . . . . . . . — ‘ , . , . ‘ . , . . — , . ‘ . ‘ . . ‘ . ‘ , ‘ , . . . — ? ... , , . — , , , . . . , ‘ , . . ‘ . . . , . — , , . , , , . . ? . . . . . ‘ . . . ‘ . ‘ . . , ! . . ‘ . . . ‘ . . . . ... . . . : , ‘ . . , , , , . . ‘ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ? , . . . . ......,....??.,....-.........‘...,,,..‘....‘...‘....‘.,,.,?,...,.,.‘‘‘.,., ...‘...:...‘...,,.,,‘.!,:.,,....::.,..,,....-.,..,:,,,‘‘,.....,...,..::.,,: .,..‘....?!.,.,,,.:‘...:,,,,,:...‘.‘...,,,,,.:—?‘?—‘,..—,.?—?..? —.—?.,..‘,..—,,..—‘,.‘.‘,..—?..—-‘..—?,...—‘,.—-?.—,..‘., ,..—,‘.—?—,‘,.‘..‘..:—!—,,...,,:—?.—,.—‘,..‘?,‘...—,.‘,‘. —‘,,.‘..,.‘‘..—,.—,..,.—,.—,..—‘?.—‘,.—,‘?.—‘,.—?.,‘?‘,? —?,..—,?.—,..—,.‘!!...—?..—,.—,..—?—!.‘.—‘,.?.—!..—‘,. — ! . , , ‘ ... — , . — , . . , . : , . . . . . . . . . . ? ‘ . . . ‘ . , : , ‘ . . . . ? . . . , , . : , , . . . — . ? . , , . ‘ . : . ‘...‘.‘:..‘.,.....?,....‘,....‘‘‘.?‘.........—?....—‘,..?‘..‘‘‘...‘.. —‘,,‘.‘.?—,..—,.:.....—...,...‘,.‘.....‘:.‘..:.—,.‘..—?.,,.,.!?. :.,...,.‘?.!‘..........‘.....,...,:.?‘..,..,....‘.,:,.,.,.........,..‘..... .....-..‘..‘,,.‘...!...,?.?...,,.,:‘.‘......‘.,.‘.......‘.....,.....‘....:. .................?.‘..?.,.......?‘....:...‘...!...,,.?....,....?,....?... . . . . ! , , : — , , . . , , . . . — , , , . . ‘ . . . , ‘ : : . . — , , . — , ‘ , ? . . ‘ . . ... — . . . . . , , . : ‘ : . , . . . ‘.,,.:,:..‘,......—,,‘,,.—,.,.‘.,...,,‘.....,!—,.‘.—,,.,...,.,.,,.... , , , . . , , , : . . , , . . , , , , . . . . . . . .’ . , ! ‘ ! ! ‘ , , ‘ ‘ . , , , , . , , , , . — , , ‘ , , , ‘ . , , , : — . — , , ? . . .::.:.‘‘.,,.,,.—,.—?—‘.‘,‘,‘.‘.‘‘.,,.,,‘.—,.......—,.‘..,.,‘..—,‘ , , . . : , - , ‘ , . , ‘ , . . . ‘ : — , ‘ . ‘ . . ... — , . . — , , . , , . . — , . ‘ , . ‘ . . ‘ . . , , . ... . . — , ‘ . . ! ! ! : , . ... — ? . , , . . , ? ? , . . — , , . . , . . . . . — ‘ . . . . , ! — . , , . , , , . , , : , ‘ , . , , , , , . , , , , ‘ ( ‘ ) , , , : : : , , ? — , . , ? — . , . ? , ‘ . , ‘ , ‘ . : . ‘ , , . , , ... , , ? , . . ! ‘ , ‘ . . ? , . ? ? ... . , ? . . . ‘ . . . . . . . ...,,,...,.......—?‘..,,.—,,....‘...,,....—,,.—!...,,,.—,,,.?—,:. (!),‘,,,.‘.—?‘.,.‘‘,,,,.—,,..,,,.,,--.?.,,?:..,,.?,..,.,.,,,.??!—,,, ,,.:.:..—.?.—?‘.‘?.—!.?.—‘.......,,,.,,.....‘,.,,.,.,,.,,,..—,,.,, ‘ . . , , . . . , . . . ‘ . ? . , . . . . . , ? ‘ . , . ? : . ? ‘ . . . ‘ ? ‘ ? , ‘ ? . , . . . ? ‘ ? , , . ? . , . . . ‘ . . . — , , , . ... —,...—,...‘...?......,:—,.,,,,:—,,?.??—,,.—.,,,.,.,,,,‘..,,,,,,. — . ... . , . ‘ . : : : : : . , , . , , , . . . . . : , , . — , , . . . . . — , ‘ ? . , , ‘ , . , ‘ , ‘ , ... , . . . . , . : — . . . . ‘‘.,.—,,,,,,.,,.,,,,.,,..—,......—,,..—,,.‘.—,.—,,..—,,,,.,,,,, ?,,,.—,,,.—,..:.‘...,?:..,:,.,:-..?,.?—,,.—?,,?—,,,,,,.:‘.,,.? — , . ‘ ‘ ... — , , ? ? , . . ... — , . . . . . — . , . . . . , . — ?— . , ‘ , . . , ? ? — , . ‘ ‘ . . , , , ? . ? . ( , ) ....‘.,,,,....—,..‘.(),.,,‘‘,,.,,.,,,..,,‘,‘,,.—!.,?‘.,‘,,,..—,?....: ,,.,,,,,,,,,,,.——————...,!.—,,..,‘,...,:—?...—,,...—,.?‘..

regarding arts & letters

91


Taylor

92

, . , . . . . —............ . . . ‘ . . . . . , , . . , ‘ ! , ! , ! , ‘ . . ‘ . . . . . , . . , , , , , , . . ( ‘ ) . . , . . — , . , , , . . . ,.-:.,,.......,,.,,,...,,,.‘,,........‘.....,......—,‘,,,,..—,!..—‘,,. , , , . . : . , , . . , , . : — ‘ ‘ : ‘ ... , , , , , , , , . — , . — , , , ... ... , , . — , , . . . , , , , , , . . — , , ‘ , . . ‘ ,‘.,,,,.,.,:..,‘!..........‘...,,..:.........,...‘....:...‘.......—?.—.. :...,,‘,.........?..,,.,..,.....‘.......‘...:.—,......,.?........‘....... — , . — , . — , . — , . — . , , ‘ , : . . , , , . — ... . — ‘ , . , , . , , . . . . , , , , . — . , , , , , . , : . , , , ‘ , . : ‘ . . ‘ . , , , , , , . — ... . . . ? . . ‘ . . . ? . . . . . . ? ? . ? ? ? , , . ? . , , : , , , . — , ‘ ... . . ! . . : . . . ‘ . . . . . . : , , , . . : , , . ‘ . , ! ! , , . ? ? : ‘ ‘ . , , , . . , , . . . . . . . ‘ . , , , , . ! . —... ... . . . . . ‘ . . ‘ . . . ‘ . . : . ! . , . . , , , , , ‘ . , . . ‘ . . — ... ‘ . , . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . — ... . . . . , , . . . ? . . . . . , . — ! , ! , . , . . ? . . — - , ! - , ! . . . . , , ! — ! , , , , , , , , ‘ , , , , , , , , , , ... — ! ! . . . . . . , , , , , . — ! . , . . ! . . , ! . , , , , ,,,,,,,,.‘,.,,,,.,,.....,.,,,.‘,.,,.,,,,..—,,.‘,,.,,.....,,...,,‘...‘:‘‘.. ,,,,‘,,‘.,,,,,,,,,,‘,‘,.--:.......,,,...‘.....,.‘,,,,.,,,.....:........,‘!. . : . . . . ; . : . . . . :’ . . , . ? . . . , , . — ‘ , , . : . . . . . , , : , , : , : : , : : , , : , : : . . . . . . . . . , . — , , . . . ..?.,:.‘.—,.—,....:.....‘.:..‘.:,..‘.‘..,...::.,,,..‘..,.....,,,...,.... . . , , , . . , , , . . , , . . . , , , . ‘ , , . , , . ! ! . ! ... ‘ , . . ‘ . . , : . : . . ? . . . . . . . . , . . . . . . . . ‘ . . . : . . . . ? ,?.??,..,,.............?‘.‘,.‘..?....,..‘...,,,,,,,,,,,.?.‘.—?‘.—,..,. :.:......?.....??,....‘‘...?..............:,,.:/..‘‘.........:........‘,. .....,....‘....!‘.....!‘...‘.‘..................,,..,,,.—!.‘...,,.,,‘.,,.. . . , , . ! . . . . . . . , , , , , . , , , . , . . . . . . ‘ . . . : . ? , ? . . . . . . . . . . , ‘ . . . . . , : , . — ? , . , . . ‘ ‘ , , ‘, ..,‘..,.?:.‘.....,,,.:,,,,:,,,.,,,,,,,,‘,.‘.‘:.,‘.‘......:,,,,:.‘..?..,.... ‘.....‘‘...‘,,.:.....,!......,.‘,,.........,,...—,,.—,,...—,,..—,,.‘. ,,..,,..?—??—,.‘..,.,..‘.?.....,.,...........,,‘,,,....‘.....‘‘.:,‘.... .‘.‘..........,.,.,,,,,...‘,‘....?......,,,..,,.‘.,‘.,:....,,......,,...... ‘..‘...,,..‘‘....?....?.......‘....,...‘..,..‘.,.........!..,.,,.....,.... ???.......,,.?...?..—,,...,.:...,..‘..‘.....,.........,..:.:.?,......,.. .,.‘...‘.,.....,.........???....,‘.,,.‘,.....,,.,..‘..,,...‘().::....!.... ..?.,,.,,,..,:,:(,,):,,,,,.............,.‘....?.,,...,.?..‘....:.,.,...... .!,!.,,,,,,,,,,,....,..,,,..,,,...—,,.,‘.—,.,.—,.,,,.....,,,,.—‘,.. —,,‘...—,,.:,,........—,.—,.::::..,..,?,.,,.,.....‘.:..‘...‘........ . . . . . . . . , , . , . , : . . . . . . . . ‘ . . . . . . . . , , . . , . , ( ‘ ) , . ! . ‘ . — ? , . ‘ ... — , . — ‘ ... . . . . — . . ? . — , , , . . , . : , . — ! , . ! —’ ! . . ... . . . . — , , . , , . . — , . , . . . . . . . . . ‘ . . . . . . . . . . , , . . : ‘..‘.....‘.,.......,,‘(‘)(‘),,..,,..,.,‘?..?.....!!‘‘‘!!.?...,........‘.., ,......,....,!.?,....?..?.!....,.‘,..,?...,,..‘.:....‘.‘....‘...,,‘,.,,,,, :,,,...‘.‘...—.—,,.—...........,.....!...-.‘......‘‘..,............ —,,.??—‘,.‘?—,,.‘.—?.—,.‘——‘---.—?.—,...‘‘.—‘?.—,.!.‘‘‘ . , , , , , , ‘ , , . ‘ . , . . . ? , ‘ , , , , . , , , , , , , , , , : , , , , , , . — . .? . — , . — ? . — ? . , ‘ ‘ , . — ? . — , . . — ‘ , . . — ‘ , . , ? — , . . —- , ? . — , , . . . . , ‘ , . , . , . . , . , , , , , , , , , , , . , , , , . , , , , , , .,,‘,,.,‘,.,,,,,,,,,,,,,,.,,.,,!‘:,,,,,,,,,,,‘‘,,‘,,.‘,,,,.—,,,,...‘.—,. —‘,,..—,,.:—‘?.,,.—,,.:—.,:—‘.—,,,.‘‘.—,,.—,.—‘?.—,.—,, .‘,?.—,,.???,,..,,().,,..,..,.,.,,,,,,,‘,,,,‘,,‘,,,‘,,,,,,,,,,.,.,,,,,,, ,,,‘,,,.,,,,,,,,,,,,,.,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,‘,‘.,.,‘..—‘,.—,?. —,.‘.—,,‘.‘,?‘,:.‘:.—‘,,..,.,.,,‘.,‘.:—,,;,‘:.‘,?,,,,‘,,.?.,,:,,:,, ... — , , . — . , , : , , : , , , , . ‘ , , ! ‘ , ? — , , , . . , . — , , . — , , . . ! ! ‘ ! . . , , , , , , . ‘ , . ‘ . ‘ . , , . . — , . . ‘ . : ... . — ? . — , , . — ! . ‘ . — , . — ? . — , . ‘ ‘ ‘ . , ‘ . . : . . — ? . — , , . ? — , . ? . , , . ! . ‘ . . ... . — ? . ? — , , . ‘ , . , , . , , , , , , . , ‘ ‘ , . , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . — ‘ , , ? — ‘ ? . — , , . , ‘ . ‘ . . . — ? . — , . . . — ? . ‘ ‘ : — ‘ , ? — ‘ , . ... — ? , . ? — , . — ? . — , . ? — ‘ ‘ ? . — ! . — , . — ‘ , , . — ‘ ? . — , , . — ? . , ... ?... , ‘ ... ? ? — ? . ‘ ... ? — ! . ‘ . — , . . — ? . — , . , .

re:al


All the Punctuation in Ulysses —!..,....,,,...:,,...‘.,..‘‘,,.‘...:‘,.:.,,:,,.—,,.—?.—,.‘.,,..,.—! ..,,‘:—?—,.—,,?—,,,.‘..—‘,,.,‘.,‘.—,,,...,,‘,,,,,.—,,.‘,,... — , , ‘ , . ‘ . — , ‘ , , . , ? . , . , . ... — , , . —... ... — , . —... ... . — , , ‘ , , . . , . — , . — , . , , , . ,,,?,‘‘‘.,‘.—,,..—‘,,.‘.,.:,.‘‘.—‘‘,.—‘?.—‘‘,.—?.—‘,.,..—,,. — , . ‘ , ‘ , ... . , , , . , , . . . . : — ! , ! ! ! ! , ‘ : . ‘ . , . , . , , ‘ . , , . ! . . , , , ‘ , ‘ , , ‘ ‘ . , . ‘ ? . , , ‘ ‘ , ‘ , . ! — , . — , , . — ‘ , . ... — ! . ! . . . . . ‘ . . - - - - - - - . . ‘ . . , , ( ) , , , - , , . , , , , , , , , , , , - , - . . ( ).....‘.,,,,,,,,,,.,,,.‘......,.,.(‘‘).,,.()—,.,,,,,,,,,,,().‘.,‘,,,.,,., ..,(,,),,,.‘‘.,,,,,()‘..,..,.,,,,,...,,,.,,.,,,,,,,.,:(,,‘).,,-,,,.,,:—,. ,,,‘.‘,..,‘‘.,,,,‘...,.,,.‘,,.‘.—‘?,.—,...—‘,?.,,....().,,,,.(!)().(. ..)..,,.‘.,,,‘.,,..—,,,‘.,‘‘.,,‘..:—?—?.—,,.‘?.—,,.,‘,‘..,,,,‘‘. —,,,‘.,?—,‘,,‘.—?.—‘,,.‘.‘..‘.,!.,‘..‘.,.‘‘.—,,,,,,.,.—,,,,.—,. ,,,,..‘.,.,,.,,,‘,,,.,,.??,.,,,,,.‘..,.‘,,‘..—,,.,.—,.—,,.,.,..—,?. —,.—?.?—‘,.—,.,..,.—,,,..‘.‘...‘.‘‘.‘?..‘.,‘............—,,.—,, ?,.—,‘,,.—‘,...‘..‘?—‘,..,?-.(..):,,?(..):..‘.‘(..):?:.:‘?(!!):.(.. ):‘.(.):!!(..)—‘,,....,?—,,..—,,..—?.—,.‘.?.‘.:,.?‘.‘.‘‘,-,,,..,, .,‘,,,..,,,,‘().-.,,...,..,...;.,..;...,...;..,..;..,..;...,...;...,..;..,. ...;..,...;..,..;.,..;.,..;.,..;.,..;..,...;..,..;...,..;..,..;.‘,..;...,.. .;...,..;...,..;.,..;..,...,.,.,.—,,-?—,.—,.—??.:—,,.—,,..—,.‘. . —- , . , : — , ‘ , ? — , . . . . , , , . . , ‘ . . , ‘ , . , ‘ . , . . , , . , , , . . . . ‘ ‘ , . . ‘ . — , . ‘ . — , . ‘ ? —?.,.‘.,,..—.,‘?.—?.‘,..‘...‘...‘..,.?,.?‘‘,.‘.‘,..:.:.,‘‘,,‘,.—,. —,.—,.—,.—,.—,..‘,?—,....—?.—,..‘,,.—,.?...‘.,,.-.‘,?,.,.,‘ ,‘.—?..:.—,...—,..—,,.,‘.—,?.,,.—?.‘.—,,.—,....:.—!,.‘?.. — , . . , . — , , . — , , , . — , . . — ? . ... — , . ‘ . — , . — ‘ , . , . . . , . ‘ . ‘ , , , , . , ? , , , . — , . . , . . . . , . ? . , ‘ . — , , , . — , , . . —- , . — ? . , , . — ? . — , . . , ‘ . ? ? . ? , , , . . . , . — ? . — , . —,,.—,.,,‘.—,.‘‘,.:—!!?,?—,..—!!,.,,‘.,,!!.,,,.,,,,,,,,,,..‘.,,,. .,,...—,,.,‘.‘.—,,,.‘.—,.—,,..—,‘,,.‘,.—,.—,.—,.....—,..,‘,. —,,‘‘.—,,,.—,.....,,.,..—,,,!—‘,,.,?.—,,‘??‘,,,,,,,,,,.—‘,...., , , . — , , . ! ‘ ! . . ‘ . — , . .... — ‘ , . . ‘ ‘ . : — . : — ! ! , , , , , . — ‘ , . . — , . — , ? . — , , . . . —‘?.—,.‘..—,,.‘.—,..,.,.,.,..—,,.—,.‘....—,,‘‘.—,.‘-‘,.,?,!,, . , , ? , . , , , , , , , . ? ‘ ? — ‘ , , . , , . ‘ ... — , , . , . — , . , , . , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , . , ‘,,,,.,,,,.,,,.,,,,,,..—,.,,.—,.—,,,,,,,,,,‘‘.,,,‘,,,,,.....‘.—,,.? — , , . — , , , . ! ? — , , . . , . . , , . : , . . , . — , , ? — ‘ , . . ‘ . . , , . — , , ‘ . : —’ . . — ‘ , , . , ‘ . ‘ . — , . — , , . . , , , , , , , , , , , , , . — , , ‘ . ‘ ? ‘ ? ‘ ‘ . — ‘ , . . . . . . , . . . , , , . — , . ... — , , . . —,...,.,?‘,,.?—!.!?.‘‘?.—,,.—,,‘‘?,,,,.—,...—,.‘.-!—,,,‘.,. —,...:—‘.—,?.—,,..—?.—,,..—,..—,,..—?.—,.—?.—?..—,,, ,‘‘‘.,:—.—,.—?.—,...,,.—,,,.—,,..,,.,,,,(,),.,,.,,,,,‘,,,,(),‘,, ‘,,‘,,,‘,,,,,,,‘,.‘,,,‘,,,,,‘—.—,.?—‘,,.—,,....,.—,.....,,,.—?. —‘,.—,..‘...,‘,,‘.,,.—‘,.,,,.‘,.‘.—?.—,..,..‘..‘?.—,..—,.‘‘.. —?..,!‘.........,,,........—,,,.,.—,,.—,..—,,.?!‘?—‘?.:—,,.,,, ,,,‘,,,.,,‘,,,.—,.‘..—,..—?.—,.‘.‘:.—,.—‘‘,..—,..,‘.‘?—,.‘. —,‘,...—‘,,.—?.—,..‘.—?,?—‘‘,...‘..—‘,.—,,..—,.‘.()()(‘)() ()(,)‘‘(!)(,)(!)(!!)(‘)(!).,,..,....,,,.....,‘‘‘.—,‘,.‘‘,.,‘,‘..—,!,.! !.,.—,,.—,!...—,,,..—,?,,‘,?‘.—,,.‘(!).‘(!).—!,.?:—,,,,,‘,‘,,? —!..!—!.,!‘..—?..—‘,,?—‘,..—?.—,.‘.—,,‘?—?..,‘.—?.?,.—? ..—‘,.—‘,,..—‘?.—,..,‘.,.—‘!.!—,‘,..—,..,‘.,,‘.—,.—,,,.‘. —,..—?.—,.—,,.—?.,‘...‘?‘.,....—,.?‘.—‘,.‘.!..—,?.—,..... —,??,.—,,.—,,..—,.—‘,.,,,,,,,:,,,,,,,,,:,:,,,,,:,,:.::.,:.........

regarding arts & letters

93


Taylor

94

........................‘....................-...,..................,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,‘,,,,,,,.‘,,,,,,,,,,,.,‘.,,,,,,,,,..—.—.—.—. : — , , : . — , . — , , . — , , . . . — , , . ‘ ... — , , ‘ . . . . ! ‘ ! . . . — ‘ , , — , . — , , . . — ‘ , , . ‘ . . — , . , . —- , . , , . , , . , , . , : . , , , , , . — , . : — ! , ‘ ‘ . , ‘ . , ‘ , . , , : — , ! , ! : — . . . — , . ‘ . . —?.—,,...,.—,,‘.,‘..—!!.,‘,,-()..,,,,,.,,‘.,,,,,,,,,,,.,,,,,.,!!.,‘, ‘:—?...—,,‘.‘.—,,.!.‘.,...,‘,,.‘,.,,..,,,,,‘,...,,,,..,,,,‘...,,,..,.. ,..,..,...,.,..,..,...,...,...,....,..,..,...,....,....,...........,‘,,..?, ,..—,,?:—,!,!.!,,.,,.,,,.,:!!:!!,,‘..,,,,,,.,.,,,....,.,,,..,,..—,,.,. . : — . , . ! , . , , . , , . . . . . , ‘ , ( ! ) . . — , , . ! , , . . ‘ . . - ‘- ‘ . ‘ , . — ! . : — ‘ ? ? — , . ? — , . —?.—,.—,.‘.‘.—,.‘‘‘.?,,,,.,,.,‘.‘,..,,()‘...,..,,,,,.?‘,..,,,,.?.‘. .,.‘,,‘...:..,-,‘.‘....,,...,,‘..(‘)()..‘,,,.,!.(,,,)..‘()?,,,,,,‘‘.,,‘‘.! !.,,.,,...,...()..,‘.‘().(!).!‘.,.,,,,...,,,,..,,,,..‘,,‘‘‘‘.()(!),,,,..‘, .!,.,.—‘,.‘.,,.—,.‘‘,‘,‘,,,..—‘,,,‘.—,.‘,,..—!.‘...‘..,‘,..,,,..‘,. .,,.(),,,,,,,.‘!,‘,,.,..,,,,.,.,,.().!,,‘,,.‘.-..‘‘,,,,.,.‘‘,..‘,....‘....‘ .‘.—,....,,.,,.,,,,,,,.,,‘..,.!,,‘!.—,..,,,.—.,,.:—..,,,,,.,,..,..,,. ,.,,?.,,,‘.,,..,,...-.,,.,,,,,,...,‘,,.,,,,,....:.,,,‘‘,..,,‘,,,,.‘...,.. —!!!!‘.,‘‘.‘..!.,,,,,‘‘‘.‘‘,‘,,(!)..,‘—,,.....‘.,,,.-.:—.—?..‘.,,,.. —,,‘‘.,,,..,,,.,...‘...,.‘‘.,,.‘‘...—,.‘,,,....—,,,,.‘.,,....‘,,,,,.., ,,,.—!!...‘.,,,,,.,.-.,,.,,,,,‘.,?,,,?,,,,.,......,.—??.,‘,.,:.....,,.! ,,,..,,.‘‘:—,,!,.—‘,.,,‘.—,,.‘.....,,.,,.,,,..-,,,,,,‘..‘,,‘.,,,,,,.,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,-‘‘‘,.,,,‘,,,.!!!!!,,,,,!:.!,,.(),.!?,,?!!,.?,.,,‘.,::—!!‘ . . . , ‘ . . ‘ . . ? . , , , , . . , , . , , , . , , , . . — ... ? . ‘ ! ! . ! ‘ ‘ . . . . . ‘ . . ‘ . . . , , . . ? , . . . . . ? ? , . . ‘ . ‘,?....‘..‘.,........‘.,.‘..?,.:..‘.?..‘.‘..‘.....:,..?...,...‘.:,:..‘.... ..,‘,.,,‘...‘.‘?.,.!,!??,,.‘.‘...?‘.!‘....!,‘!..‘..,..‘....?.:...??...... ,...‘.,...‘...,,..‘.?.?.‘,,,.?..:.?‘..,.:‘.......,?,....!.,....‘...,‘?.,, ,,...,,.....,..‘.‘..‘....?‘..‘..‘.:,‘:..!....‘.!‘....‘.,!!‘....‘.....,‘.,.. ?.‘...,:,.....,...?,,....,,...,............,.,,..‘.,.....‘.,,?‘.,...,,..‘. ‘.,,.,.‘.?.‘..?!...‘...,,.,.?‘.,,...‘.‘‘,!...,.,,.?..,‘!‘,...?....,...,... ....!.,.,,..?!!!..,,..!.‘,‘..,.!..,..‘.....‘?,.‘.......‘.‘‘...‘..,..‘.,,,.‘ ..,....‘.,..,.,.:?...‘.‘.‘..,...,..,‘.‘.‘,..‘.,,..........!......,,.‘,..... .,‘..‘.‘,........,.‘,,,,......,,,..........‘.‘,.......‘..‘.??.?.,.‘.:..,.. ,...,??.‘.‘..?,.‘.,.,,..‘,,‘,,.....:,................?..,..,.‘.,,...?.!.. ?.?..,.....,,?.,..‘...........,‘......‘...‘..??,......‘....:....,....‘?‘. .,.........‘.‘.......,,,,......,:..........!....:,,,,,,..?‘..‘.?...?....,. .,,....,....,‘....‘,.:..‘..,,,,,,.‘.....‘.,,.?.......,...:‘.:..?.,......... .....‘.?.‘‘.:,,,,,....,.,..‘.....:‘.:.:..........??.‘,.?..........,....... ...,‘‘..‘...‘....‘..,?....,....,........‘‘..‘‘.?...!‘..‘.?.,.......,..,.!, !,,...‘.....?.‘...‘‘...,,,‘.?,,,,‘,.,.‘,,.,:.‘::.,,‘,‘.‘.,,:,!!‘.,.,.,,(), .,,.,.,.....‘,......,.,.,.‘....‘.!!...‘.?....!....??....:.......,..?.,,..! ....‘‘...,..,,.‘.,..?.....,....‘.‘.,,,,,‘.‘....?.........--,......‘.....‘. ‘..‘.??...‘....,.‘,,.,,.:.,...:..,...?.....??.‘...‘....‘?...?.‘...‘...?., . . . ? . ‘ ? . ! . . ? . . . ? . . . ? . . . . . . , , , , . . , ! ‘ . . . . . . . . . . . . ‘ . . . . , . ‘ . . ‘ . . , . . . . . .. . . . . ‘ . ,...‘,............,,,..‘‘...,,....,,,.,,,.,,,.!!!‘‘‘.‘‘?,,,,.,,,,,‘,‘,‘,.() .,,.,!...,:,,,,,.‘.‘....‘.,.,:.,..,‘..‘.‘.‘...,,.,...‘‘..,,‘.,‘..,..,,‘...‘ ..‘......................,,.,,...,,.,.,,,,‘.‘.‘..,,‘,,,,(,,)...,,..,(‘).,,. ..,,...:,,.,,.,,,,,?,,,....‘,,,..,,,,,,,,.‘‘,..,,,,,,.,,,,,...‘,,()‘().,,. ,,‘....,,..:,,‘‘.?‘..‘...,,,,,,,,,,,..,,,,,,.‘‘,!..,,,,..,.:,,.,,,,,,,,,,,,

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All the Punctuation in Ulysses ,,,,‘.‘.,,‘,.,,,..,,,,,.‘:,..,,,,,,,,..,,..,,,..,,.,.,,,.,,.,,:,.?,,,.:.:., ,‘.().‘.,.:,,,,,,,:.,,,:,..,,,,,,.,‘.,,.:......‘.,,,‘,,,,,,.‘‘?,.?.?.,,?? ,()..?.--,?,,,---,,,,---,,.---(,).--,,---,,,,,.,,,,,.,,..,,,‘,,,...,,., ,,,,,,,.,,‘,...‘().‘‘‘(,,).()‘,‘,,,,‘..‘,,.,‘,.,,.,.,..,,,,,,‘,,,.‘,,‘‘.,. ‘(‘).‘()‘.,.,,,‘,,,,.‘,‘.,,.,,,(),‘.,,,.‘.,.,,,.,,,,‘‘..,,,?,.‘,.,,,‘.,.‘. ,‘,,,.,,,.‘‘,.,,,.,.,,.,,,,,,.,,,.,,.,,‘,.,,,,.:,,‘.().‘.,,(),:,.,,‘‘.,,‘,. ‘,,.,,(),,.,,‘.,,‘,.,.,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,.,,:—‘.‘‘.,,,,..‘:...,,.,,,..,,.‘. ,,,,.,,:,,,,,,.(),,,,..,,.,,.,,..,,,‘.‘,.,,:,,,,,.,,.,,,.,,,,,,,?,,,,,‘,,,‘ ().,,,,,,,.,,,(‘‘):‘...,,,,,().,,,...,,,,.,,,,,.,,,,(),,‘,,,.,.,,!.,,.,,,. , , . . ! . ! . , , . , , , , , , , . , ! , , , ( ) , , , , . , , , . ! ! . . , , . . , ( ) , , , , , , , . , ( , , , ) , ... . , , , , . . , , . ! ‘.,??‘,,..,‘..,,,,!!,‘.,‘,!,,.‘.,,..,,,,,,.,,..?,,??!..,().,,.,,.,,:::.,, ‘,‘.,,,,,.():,,,.,,().,‘,,,.,,,().‘.,,,,,,,..‘,‘..,,,,().,,,,.,,.,,,,,??? ?,,?,,().,.,,,,,!,‘,,!‘..?...,,,,,.,,‘,,,.,,..:,,,,,,‘,,,,()(),,,(),,,,,, — . , , , , . , , , ‘ , ( ) . , , . , , , . . , . , , . , , , , . ‘ . . ... ! ! , . , , . , , , , . , . . ! . . , , , ? , ‘ , . . , , ( ) , ( ) , . ! . ... ! ! ! . : . . . , : ! : . . , , . . . . . . . . . . . . . ‘ . ? , , . , , , , . . . , , ( , ! ) , . , , , , , ‘ . , , ( , ! ) , , , , ( ),(!!),(?!).,,,,,,‘(,,),.,,,,..?.,,.(,,),.!!,:,.,,(!).?,.‘—!!!.,..,.. —..,.::,.,,,.,.,,,,.,:.,.,,.,,.!!!,.,,,,.!,,,,,,,,,,.,,.,,‘,,,.,,,,,,.,,,, ,,.,,,,.,,,,,,,,,,,,,.‘.,,.?.,.???,,,.,.,,,,..,..,,...‘...‘:..,!,,.....:!! ,,..:.,,..:.,,...?..!!..,,.,,.,?,.(),.:...,,,,..,.,,.!,,,,.,:....,.‘.:,.,, ...,,.,?,,.,,.,,,..--‘.,,,‘,.,,,,,...,.‘..,.,,.,,.‘.,,,,,..‘(..).,,..,, ——.(..).(,),,,,,,,,?(‘),.:.,,..(...),..,,,,,,,,—,,.,,,,,,,,,..(..),, ,.().,..(..),,,,,,,,‘.(),‘,.,,(),,(),,,..‘(..)(?),,,,,,.,..(..)‘,,,,,.(. .,......),(‘,,‘—),,.,,......,,.,(),,,.,,‘,.(),.,,,,!.!!,,,,(),,(),,,(,), ,.‘,.:.,,.,,(!),,..‘.,.,!().,.,,,,.,,,,.,,,,,,.‘,,,().,,,,,.,,,,,,.().().. ..,,.,,,.,,,,,,,.‘!,,,,,,,,,,,.,.,..!?!,,‘,,‘.,,...?‘.,,:,?,,.‘,‘,..,,!,,. !‘.!!,.,.,‘(!)?!.,.?.,!,,,.!,!‘.,,!,,,!,,,,,,,,,,,,,,.!,.—.,,.?..!.,,!‘, ,,,,,,‘.‘,?,..,!!!,,..?..?‘?‘.,!.‘?.,!,.,..,!.,,.,?...,!.‘!‘!.‘.‘?,‘!,,!! ...!‘?‘.!......!...!,,,(!).,,,,,..,,...!...!....,!?!.‘?.....?...,?.,‘.... ,?!.?‘...‘.,,?....?,.....,.,....‘.,,.!,...,.??,‘...,???‘??..‘..!,!‘..,,! ‘..!,..,‘.!..‘.‘?.‘.‘,...?........?.?,...!,?..,.?‘..,?,...?‘...,..‘.,..‘, .?..,.,..!,.,‘....?‘?..!.‘..‘...,!.......,..?...‘...?....,.,...?..,.,.‘,. .‘.?,,,,.,.?,‘.??‘.,,,?,,...!..,.?.??.‘,‘.,....‘??.,‘....,‘..,,.‘,!?.,!. !!,‘?..!‘?.,..‘??!...,,..,......??‘?!!‘,!?..,,,,,.,,...?,!.,,..‘..,!...!‘ .......,..,..!.!!..!..!!.?,,.!!?‘...,,.,..?,‘?!.!...,‘?!.,,!,-,,,,,,!,!,‘, ‘ . . ‘ . ‘ ‘ . . ‘ , . ! . ‘ , , . . , , - ‘- - . . . ‘ . . , . . , , , . . : , , ‘ . : . ( , , , ‘ . ‘ . ) : ! ! : ( ) ! : ‘ ? : ( ) . ( . . , . ,,,...,.,.,,,,.,.,,.::.,,.,,..‘,,.):,,.(,,...):,..:.,.(),,.(,,..):().:(),! :(),,,.(,,.,,,.):..(.):()!..!:().:()...(,,,.):():,,.,.‘,.,.!!!,,,.:().(, ,.,..):?:(),,,,.:.!:.,.:!:,?..:.?:,,,.(,,,,,.):?....(.,,.....,,...,,,..,, ,,,.‘‘‘..,.,,.‘,...):...!(‘,‘,.,,.,‘,‘,.,..):.?(..):??.(‘,):?,,....‘.‘.() ‘,‘!,!()‘....(..):,!(,,,,):.:(,)!(,.,,,,..):.(.,‘,.,,,,.):,,?:(..)..‘.... ()‘..‘..............?..().....!(‘‘,,..):,,?:(,)..:....(),.(..,.):.(,,,.): ,,.?.,,.....(,,.):(,,.,.,,,,.):.‘...(,.....):...:(,,),,.:??(),??:(),..‘. :().?:(‘,,,‘,),..:!...,..:()...:()!!:!:(‘,‘,,,,,,),!!(.,,),?(,,,,.):()!: ? ( ) . ( . . , . . , , , . ) : ! : ? , , . ( ) ? : ( ) , . . ( , , , , , , , , . . . . , , . . . , , . ) : ! ! ( , , , , , , , , , . . ) : ... ... ... ... : ? ( , ) , , ! . . : , . . . ( ) . ! ( , . , . ) : ‘ . . . ( , , . ) : , . : . . . . : ( ) ! : , ‘ ? : ? ( , , . ) : ? ... ( , . , .):...‘-‘.(.,,.):.?(..,,.,.):()‘.‘..‘..(,.,,.):.()..:??‘..:,...,.:().(,) ! . ( . ‘ , , , . ) : ... : ( ) , ... : ! ! ! ! : ( ) . ? ‘ . . ? ‘ . ‘ . . . . . . . . ... : ( ) , ‘ ! ‘ . ! ( ) ! : ( ) ‘ . . , . . . . . . . (

regarding arts & letters

95


Taylor

96

.‘‘‘.—,.?—‘,,...-?,,.().—‘,,...,.—,?.?...:?—,,,.‘,‘,,,‘.‘,‘..,..‘ .‘.?,....‘.....,.,...,‘.—?..‘.‘.,,,.,.—!.!!!,:—.:.??..?.!,,.,!,!:—‘ ‘ , , ‘ , , . ‘ , ‘ , . ‘ . : — , , . . , . — , , . . ‘ . — ! . . , . — ! . - - - . , . . , . ‘ ! . , , . . ‘ . — , . —... . ... ? ? — ‘ , , , . . . — , , . ?... , , , , , , , : — ? ... , ! , . , , , , . — ? ‘ ? ? . , . ... ... , . — ... , , , ... ? ... , ... ... , ... ... , ... , , , . . — ! . . — ‘ ? ? . : — , , . . . . , . : — . . , , . . . , ! . — , ‘ . . , , , . — , , , ‘ , , , . , ,..,,.,,,,,,.,,...‘‘,,,,,‘:.,,,,,,,....??—.‘.,,:—!—‘.,,.?..,,,..‘,... ...,,.‘.—?.—..,..—,,,...—,,,,.,,.,,.‘:,‘.,,.,..—,..:,,,,,,,,,,,,‘,, ‘,,.,,.‘....:.,,.‘..,:,,,.,,...!—,,.—,,,,,.?—,,.—,.—,,..—,,,,(‘). — ? . ... — , . . , ! — ? . , . ‘ . : . , ... — ! . . : . ! . — , . : — . . ? , , ? — , . . , . . . ‘ ? . ‘ , ‘ : . ‘ . , , . ‘ . , . ‘ . , , , . ‘ . . , , , . — , ,’ . . . — , , . — , . . . . — , ... — , , . . — ! ! ‘ ! ‘ ! . — , , , , . , , . , , . . ( , , ) . . . . — , . — , . — ? . . — , , , ‘ , . — ! . ? ... — , , . ( ) . , , ‘ . . : . . — , . . ‘ . . ? . . . , . , , .,,...,,‘.?‘,..,,,,.?...,,....—,,,.‘.,,,,,....,,.‘.,,.,,.,,,.,.,,..??... .....?—,,.,,,,,,.:,,,.:‘,‘,‘.--.—?.??.—,,,.,,.:?,,,,,,,,,.,,.,,.... —,....!!‘!!.—,,‘..‘.,,.,,‘.,,..—,.,,,,,,,,........,.:,,,.‘.‘.:.:!‘?:,, ‘ . , ‘ , . ( ) : ( , ) ... : , , , , , ‘ . , . : . ‘ , ... ( ) : ( ) ... : ( ) , , , , , , . . ‘ , , , , . ‘ ? . , , , . , , , . , , , . . . ‘ . . .,.?...‘?,,..:.:...—,?.?—,..‘?,,.,......—,...,....?-,....,.,,...:—‘ , ‘ , . . . , ‘ , . . . , , . . — , , ... ... ? : : . : — ! ... — , ! . . . — , . . , ‘ ? — , , . . . ? ‘ . . , , : . , . . . . . . .,...—.?,,,(‘?),,.,,..‘,.‘?—‘,..-?..—?.,,.,,,,.,,,,,,.,,,.,..,,.,... ,,,,,—.‘..—,...—,...,..,..—!!.!,.—!.(?)..—,.,,,,,...(?).,.,,,,.: ,,,‘,,...:..,.,,,,,,,,--,.(),,,,,,,,,,.—!.!‘.—?....—,,,,,..,,,.,,,. —,..?—,.—?.,‘,..—,,,‘‘..,,,.,,...,,.,??.?.—.‘......—,,.,:,:—,, . . — , . , . , . . . . . . . — , . . . — , , . ‘ . , , . ? , ... . . ... ... . . . : . . , , , , , , . ? ? ? . ‘ . ‘ ‘ . : ? ‘ . — , ... ... , : — . . ?... ... ... ? ?... : . , , , , : , , , ‘ ? : — , ! . , , ‘ . . . ! . . : . . ? ? . . ( ) , , ‘ . ... ... ... ... ... — ‘ ... , : . ‘ , , . . . . , , . . — , . . , . . — , , . ! . ‘ ? , , : — . . . — , . , . ‘ . : ( ) . ‘ , : — , , . . , : — : ()()))())()().,,,:,:—,,,!—,,.,,...?,.?,.:..,,.—,....,........—,‘.? .,.,,.....,,,,......,,..::.‘.,.....‘?....‘..,.:.,,...,,..,,,,,‘:.:..—,,., ?..,??.?.,.,.,.,:......,.—,.,,.,.,,.,,‘.—!‘?,....,,.?,?,...:...?..?.? . . ? . , . . — ‘ , , . : — , . — , , . ‘ . . , , , , , , , ‘ . ‘ ? ‘ , , , . . ? . , , . ! , ! ... ?... . . . . . . ( . . ) . . . . . . ..,......‘,...:.....‘..,.,.‘....‘‘..‘,‘,‘,,.,,,.:...‘,,...‘,,..,,,......,.. ,,,....,,..::,,,,,.,,.....,,.(..).‘,.,,.,..,..,.,.,,.,,,,.,,,,,,.?,,‘?.,‘. ,‘,...,.,,..,..,..,,..,,‘,.:........,::..:..::..,,,..,..,,.,,.—‘,.—,. — ‘ , . . — ‘ ? . — , . ‘ , ‘ , . ‘ , , : — ... , : — . . . ‘ ‘ . , . , , . : — ... , , , . , , : — . , . . . , , . ‘ . . , ‘ ,:—,..—?..—‘,.,.—?.—‘‘..—!..—‘?.—,.:—,?,,:—‘?.—,.—?. —,..—!:—..,,,:—.‘?—,.,,:—.,‘,:—!!,,,,,,,‘.‘..—,?.—,,..—‘,, . , , . , , , . . . . .’ , , , . , ‘ . — ? ? ‘ ‘ . — , . ? — , , . . . — , ? . — , ? . ‘ . — , . , . ‘ . — ‘ ? . ‘ . . . . — ? . , , , . — , , . . , . — , ? . — ! . ‘ ‘ . , , . . ‘ . . — ‘ , , ‘ . . . ... , . , . — , , , . — , . , . . , , . — , , . — , , ? . ‘ . . . — , . . , . — , , , . . — ? . , ? ! , , . , . . . , ? . , , : . : — . ‘ ‘ , . . . .’ . , , , , . . ‘ , ? ‘ . .‘...‘..—.,.,.,.‘.,,.,.‘..,..‘.:,,..—!!.,.‘.,.,.‘..—‘?.?—,.—,,?,.. . ‘ . : . — ! . — , , . ‘ . . ‘ . ‘ . , , ? — , . — , , . . — ‘ , . ‘ , . — , , ... — , . . ‘ . . , . . — ‘ , , . ‘ ... —‘,,..,.?—,.,..—,,....‘‘,‘,..—.,.:‘,..‘.‘,..—,..‘..—!..?‘,,.‘,.? , ‘ . , . , . . : — , ! . . ‘ : — , . ? ‘ ? . . , , . — ! . ! — , . . ‘ . — , , ... ... ... ... ... ... — ... ... ... ... !... ! . —?.‘.,...,,,:.,,,,‘.—?.:..,?.—,,..—?.:,,,:..—‘,,..—,.‘.—,‘.,. —,?.—,..‘.—‘,.—,‘.,.—?..‘,,.‘.,.,‘,..—,..—,,.‘‘.‘?‘‘,‘‘.—,.‘? —.,..‘...—,.‘..‘.‘.—,.—‘,‘,.—,.—‘,‘..,...—‘‘,...‘,‘,.—,.,..,,. ‘ ... — , ‘ . . — ? . . . — , . . . : . . . ... — , ‘ . ... . — , . ‘ . ‘ . . : , . ‘ . . ‘ ! , . . , : — . ? . , , . — , . ‘ . : , . , , , , . , . . , ? . , . , ? , ‘ . , ‘ . , . — ‘ , . ‘ ‘ . . . ‘ . — ‘ , , . ‘ ... ... ‘ . , ‘ . . : . . . . . : . — , , . . —,..,.‘,.,,...?...‘.:.:‘..:....—.!!....—....—,,.,..:.,.:..(!!).‘.(!)

re:al


All the Punctuation in Ulysses .!!!!!!,,,‘,,‘,,,,.,.‘,.,.,,,,..,:—‘..—,,.‘.‘.,,,......?.:—!...,..,... ,,.,,‘..—‘,.—,.,,?!..—,,.‘.?,.—,,...—?.—?.-.—,,.—?,.,,‘.—,. ?—,,,.?..—,.—,..—,.‘,?..‘.!‘.‘.‘....—,?,..—!—,,.,,:—!.—,.‘. .—,,.—‘,.‘.,‘..,.—‘?..—,.‘.‘.—‘,,.—,,..‘..,,.—‘,..,:—!!,‘!,‘!! ‘ , , ‘ , ‘ . . , ? , . . ? . ‘ . , . . . ‘ , . , . , . . , ! . . . . ? . . . ‘ ... , ‘ , . ? . ? . , . . . . , , . ? . ‘ ? ‘ . , . , , ‘ ‘ . . . ..—,,.?—,,,,.,.,......,,.!...,,,.,.‘,,,,,,..,...,.‘,??.‘.....!.,..,..‘. .,.....‘?,....,...‘‘.‘,....,‘,‘,.....‘.......,.,,...:.....,,,...,.!!.!!‘... ,,,.,,,..,,,..,,..,,,.,‘..?:...,,‘...!...?,.,....!..,..,.,‘,.,.‘...:‘..—, .......,,.,,,..?...:.?..‘..:—!!!.?.‘,‘.,,‘.—,?‘..‘.—?.,...,,‘..—?. —,,.?.?,...‘.—?.?,...—,.‘.‘..—,.......,.,,....‘.!!—,,.?—,,,,.‘.. —‘?.—,.‘,,.—,.?—,..—,?.—,,..‘.‘..,.—,,.!‘.!.—,,,.‘.,.:—.—, .‘.,,:—‘,‘,‘?—,,,.,,:—,,.—,.‘.—,?.‘,,,.,‘,.—!.—‘,,.—?.??.—‘ , , . . ‘ ‘ , , , . , . — ‘ , . . ‘ . ‘ , . . ‘ ... ... ‘ , , . — , . , , . — ? . ‘ ? — , . — ‘ ‘ , . . . . ? — ‘ , . . ‘ . ? —,,.,.—,,,.—,,..—,,..,‘‘,.—,,..—,.—?..,,,.,,..—,,,..—,,.. —,.—,..—‘,,..—‘,,‘.—,..‘--,,,.,,,‘.—‘,.‘..,,.—,,..—,,,...—?. ,,.,,.,,,,,,.,..,,,.—?..—,!.‘.!!!‘.—,.‘,..—,.—.‘,...—‘?...,.,.,,. — ? , . — , . : — ‘ . . , . — ? , . — , . ‘ , , . . , , , , . — ‘ , . — , . . , : — . . . . , . . — ‘ , . . : — ... ‘ . — , , . . — , , . . . . — , , . . , , . . . ... — , , . . . , . ‘ . ‘ . . — , , . , , . . ? . . . — , , . . — , , . , ‘ . .—,.‘.,,,,,‘,.,‘.‘,,‘,,..‘‘,,.‘,‘,‘..:—.,.‘,..—‘,,!‘,‘!‘‘,‘,‘,,.‘.,.,, ...,‘,,,.,‘.,‘.,...‘.?.,.,,.,,,,....,.,.‘..,..,..‘,..‘?‘.‘‘..:..,.?‘..,... .‘..,.‘.,,,,.,......‘‘,..,..,..‘,‘,,,.,.,,,‘.‘.,,‘‘.,‘,.‘.‘.,..,,.‘,,.‘‘,‘, ‘‘.‘‘.,,....,‘‘,,..,,.,,,,..,......,,,.‘,‘,.,,,.‘..,....,,.‘.,..‘,.‘,,,,.‘, ‘.‘,...:‘..‘..,..,.,..,.,..,..,.,...,.‘‘..-.‘‘,,.,,..,‘,.‘.,,‘.,,,,.,.,,,‘. , . , , . ! . . . . . , . , : . ! ‘ ... ? . , , . . . . : . . ! . . . . . . . . . . . ! . . . , ! . . . . ! ! . ! . . . . . . . ! . . . , ! . ! ! . . ...:,.....!.?,,.:.‘..‘?:,::....,,....!...:..,.!..,...,,...,,,.!,!....!...,. ..!!???.......!,‘‘,,.—?.,,.—,.:—.—??.—,‘,.‘..,,,.:—‘.:—!‘?.,. ,,..—‘,..‘,‘,,‘,.,,..—‘,.,,.—?.—,,.—,?:—‘.—,,..:—.‘‘..—,.,., ,,.,,,,.,,,,,.—?.—,..?.—,.—,.—,,.‘.,,:—,‘‘!—,..—,‘,.—‘,.?‘: —?.,:,:—‘‘.!.,,,,.—,,,.!!‘..—!,.?,:—!‘.?,.‘.‘‘.,,.:.....‘...:..... ,.,,,,,,.,,,,,,.,,.,,.,,,,,,,,:—!!.!,,,,.—!.,,,,,,,,,...,,,,.(!),,(!),. ,.—!,.‘..—,!.!(!),.‘,‘,.‘,......,....?,........,,..,...—,,..?—..—, ....—,...—!.‘,‘..—,..—,.?—,,.‘..—,.‘.....—,,..,....,,‘,......., :—,,!—?...,...‘.....—,..—?.:—,?.,,:—..,,,..—!‘?..:....,:—.:? . . : — ! ! . — . — ? . . ? — ? . ? , . . , , . — , . ‘ . . ? . — , . ‘ ‘ . . ‘ , : —. , , ‘ ‘ . — , . . . . . . . —.—,,.—?—‘,?,.,.‘.—?..—,.‘‘.‘.,,,...,.(?)(?)(!).(),,,.‘‘.?.,.? . . . , . , . : . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . — , , . — ... ... ... — . . . . . ‘ ? . . . , . . . . ? , , , , . . ‘ : , , , . — ... , : —... . . , , , , , , ‘ , ‘ , ‘ . — ... ‘ . — , , . . , : , , . — ? . , : — ‘ . , . ‘ . , . : — . , , , . . : . ‘ , , . — ... —,...,,..—‘??,,.?..?‘‘...?...??..,?.?..,.‘.....,,,,.—!!,.!.—‘?.,, ( : ? ) , : — . . . — ‘ , . . . — , , ... — , , . — , . — , . , . . ‘ , , . . . . ( , ) , . . ‘ , . . . . . . . — ? . ? ‘ . , , , ‘ . — ‘ , . , , . , , . . . ? . : . ‘ . , . , , . ‘ . — , . ‘ - . . —... ‘ . , . ‘ . — , . . — ... — , . — , , . ! ! ‘ - . . . . . . , , , , . — ! ! ! , . . , , , . — ! . ‘ . — ! . . . ( ! ‘ ? ) , , , . — ‘ , . , , . , , . , , , , , , , . , . —... , ! — ‘ , . , . — , , . . ... — , , . . — ? . . ‘ . , , . — , ? — ? ? ? ‘ , ‘ . ‘ , . . ‘ ‘ . , . — , , . , . . . , , . . ? . . ....(?)...,.—‘?.,.—,,..,.,,(:)...,..,.,,..,.‘...‘...—,,..‘,,,..(?),( ),.(?),,,,,.—,...—,.‘..—,?,......—,.‘,?.‘,..—,,.—,..,.....—,.? ? ‘ . ? , . — , . , . — . , , . ‘ . ? ‘ . ? — , , . . . . . . , . , . . . . . . — ‘ ? . ... — . — . ? — . — ... — . — , . . , , , — ? ‘ , . , ? , , , , . — ... ?... ... , ... , . . — ... . , , , . , , , , , . , . . , , ‘ , , , , . , , . . ‘ , , , ‘ , , : , , , . . ? . ? . , : — ... . — ! ! . ‘ . — , . . . . , . — , ‘ , , , . . . — , . , . . . . . , , . . ? . , ‘ . . , . . , , , , .

regarding arts & letters

97


Taylor

98

,,,,...,,,,,,.):‘‘,,‘.(:,,,,,.):(),,??:(),!!:‘.,..()‘.:,!.()?,‘.:(),.!,, ,‘,?,?:..:(,,,--,),,.:.‘.:()‘‘.:()!‘‘!()...:(,).,,.(,).:(,‘,,).‘!‘!.:..( )..(),‘!(,,‘-,,,.,,,.):().:.:().()‘?.:()‘!?:(,)..?:().......‘..(,‘,.,,. ) : . ( , , , , . ) : ( ) . . . . : . ... ( . , , . ) : ( , ) ! ‘ ! ! : ( ) . ‘ . . . . : . : . . . . : ( ) , . : ‘ . ? : ‘ . ( . . , , . ) : ‘ ! : ( , , , ‘ ‘ , , , , ) , , , , , ? : ( , ) . : , . , , ‘ ... : , , ! ‘ ! ! : ‘ , , . : ( , ) ! : ( , , ) ‘ . , , . ... : ... : . ‘ , , , , ... : ( ),,,,,,.(..,,,..,,.):(,)‘.:()!(..):......:,‘..,‘.(.,,,,,,,.):,?‘??,.(... ):()‘?:...:(,),!:().:()!:()...:()..:!?:?‘..:()..(,.,.,,):............?, ‘.‘‘‘..‘..,.?,..‘,.‘..,.?..(,.)!.‘?(,,..):..:‘.??....(,.).........!!!!(,, .)...(‘,..)...?.,..(.,.,,..):....(‘.):..:().(,,.):.:..(.,,.):...(,,‘..):. :()!‘....(,,‘,,,.):(),...,,,.,.()..(),.:..:.,!(,),,...!...:.(‘.):(,‘,,).. :,‘.:()...:..:().‘.(),....(),...().‘..(),,..()‘,.‘.‘.(,.):..:(,,,,)!!,!.: ().:(,,,,,),,,.........:()...‘,,,.:()‘..().:(,).:,.‘...,..,,,,,‘.‘.:.:(), , , . . . . . , , , , , . : ! ! ? : ( ) . . ‘ , . , . . ( ) . . : . : , , - . , . . ... ( , . . . ) : ( ‘ ) , . . ‘ . . ? ? ? ? ( , , , , , . ‘ . ) : ( ) , ‘ . . ‘ ‘ . , - . , . . . ‘ , , , . , , . : ( ) , ... : ( , ) , ! ‘ ! ‘ . . . . , , ‘ , ‘ ? , , . : ( ) . . : ( ) ‘ , ! ( ) , , , . : , , , . : ( ) . : ! , ! ( ) , ‘ ! ! . ! ! : ( ) , , ... : . . : , ! ( , , . . ) : ! ? : ( ) ‘ . . , . : ? : . : ( , , , , : ) . , . . ‘ . . : ( ) ! : ? ? : , , . . . : . : ( ) , . , , : . ( . ) : ( , ) ! . ( , , . . , , , , . ‘ , . , , , . , , , ‘ , , , , ... ( . . . ) : ( ) . : ( , ) , . . (....,..‘......,......)(.,,,.)..‘:(‘,)..,.,,‘,.,.,,..‘.—.,,‘..,.:(,,‘,,‘, . , . ) . ( ) ... ( . ) . . ‘ : ( ) . , . . , , . . ( . . ‘ ‘ . ) . . , , , , . . . , . ( ) . : . ( . , , , , . ) : ( ) , , . . ( . . ‘ . , , , . . . ) . . ‘ : ( ) . , . . ( , . ) ‘ . ( . ) : ( ) . , . . . . . . , . ... . ( ) , , . , ... : ( , , ) , . , . . , . . . , . , . : ( , , - ) . , . ‘.,,..:!():()!,!!:().:,,‘.,,,,.(),.:(,,,,,)..,,.,,..,(,,),,.,,.,,,.:.:.(. ) : ( ) , . ‘ . ‘ . : ( , ) ? ( ) ! ( ) . : ! ‘ . ‘ . : , ! ! : ! ‘ ! ! : . . . . : ( ) , , ? , , ‘ , , . . : ( - ) , . . . - ‘- - . . . : ( , ,:)!!.,...():()‘,!!:()‘.!!‘.‘..().,!!?:(,).(,,.):‘..(‘....):()...(.):... ( , , , , , , , , , , , , ‘ . ) : . . , . : ( ) ? : ( ) . . : ( ) . : . ‘ . : . . : ( , ) . . . : ( ) , , , ... ( , , , , . . . ) : . ! ( ) , , ‘ . . ( . ) ( , . ) : ( ) ‘ ? ( . , , ‘ , , . . , . ) : ( ) , , . . . ( ‘ , . ) : ! ! : ( ) . . . . . . . . . ( ) . . ( ) . ( , ) , ? . . ... : ( ).:().:.:,.‘..:()!(,......,.):()...(.):()?:,‘.,,!:.:()?:.:..:.:()..,,,‘. ,...?.()..‘.(‘,,,.,,,,,.):(,)....‘:(),,.:(,).()‘!‘:.....,.(,,,.):.(,..‘,, :‘.,,,.):(,)..()..(.,....,.,,,,.):()!()!()!,!()!!!()!()!(,,,,.):‘....(,, ,,,.):?‘.:‘?:,.‘...()‘.‘.()‘,?:!:.?(,,..):‘?:..,.,,.:()‘.:.:.(..):..:?? , ? ( , . . , , . , . . ) : ‘ . : ( ) ... ( , . . . , . , , , . , , , , . . . , , , . ) : ( , ) , . : ( ) . : ? ( , . , . ) : ( , ) ? : ( ) . ‘ . ? : ( ) , . . . ( ) . : . . : ( ‘ , ) . , , , , , , , . . . . . , ! ( . ) : , ! ! : ( ‘ ) , , , , , , . ‘ . ‘ . ? ... : ! ( . ) : ! ( , . , , , , , . . ) : ( , ) ‘ . . : . : ( ) , , ? , , . , , , , . . ... ( . , . . , . , ‘ , , . , , , , , , , , . . , . , . , , , . , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,,,,,,,,,,.:,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,.,,,,,,,,‘,..,.,,,‘,.,,.....‘.) ‘:,,,‘.:()!?.:‘,‘.!(..):()‘?:()!:()!:!.(‘..):--,.!:!:(,,),.,:()?:(,).., :(‘)..,,,,,!(...,‘,‘..,,.):.(--....):!,.(.,,,,..):()!!:(),,,.(.,,..):,.:. .!!!?!!!!,,.:!!:‘.:!:‘,,‘.:‘.:,.,,.,,,.(,,,,.,,....,:...,,.):().()(..):‘.‘ ,..:!!‘!(...,,,,.‘,,,,,,,,,,,,‘,,‘,,,,,,,‘:(),(),/(),?(),(),‘(),‘(),‘(), (),‘(),(),‘()..‘.,...):!!:,.(,,.):(,).:()!()!()!!()?(‘,,,,,,)..().(),!( )!().:..:.(),,!(,)!!(,),!().(),!,!:(,)!(‘..):(,,).(,.):..,...:?:,.:.:?: (),...‘:?!‘!:?:?:....,..,...,....:?:,...:‘?:?:?:().:?:(,).‘:.,,.‘.:()..: .:()..:?:..,,......,,.,,,..,,.‘:.:()!:.:?(..,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,.):,,.:()‘! ! : ( ) ! ! : , . . : ( ) , . . : ! ‘ . : ! : ? .( . ) : ! ! : ( ) ‘ . . ‘ , . : ( ) ‘ . : ( ) . : ( ) ! ( ) ( , , , , , , , , ‘ , ‘ , , , . ) : (),,.,,.,,.,..!:!!‘.!(.,,,,,‘,.):(),.,!..‘.,,.,.,,,.:(,).‘.,....,,,..,,,,. (.):..:‘..,.:.:()..,.,.,,‘.,‘..,,....(...,,,,,,..‘,,,,.):,.:(‘),.‘.,.(..,, ,,.:,,,,,,,.,,,.):,?:().:.:.(,,,‘,,(),‘,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,.),:(‘,,,,,).‘‘‘‘ --.:().:(‘)?:()?:‘?:(,).:(,,)!(‘,.,.,,.,,.):,,!!:.:(,),,,.,,,.(..,..):!, !!!(,‘,,‘,):.:().!(,,,,.):()...:!:(.,).(..):!:(...),.(.,,,.):,,,,,,,,,,,, .(,‘,‘,.,,.):‘.:(,,‘,,),,‘.().,,,..‘‘...().....()....:(,)?.().,!:(),,?.‘

re:al


All the Punctuation in Ulysses ..:()‘..:()..??:()‘.‘.(),..??:(,),,.:‘?()?‘.:()..().‘.:()‘‘.().:!.:!:( ,,,,):.:...:.(,,.).(,,.,,,.):(,,)!(...):()!‘.:.().:,.(..,,..‘.,,,,..,,‘,, ,.:,,..,,..,,,,,,...,..,,,,...):()‘.().(.).(,,),!:,.():()?:().:.(‘:...,,, ,..):(),!:()‘..(.,,,,,..,..):.‘..‘‘‘‘.,...(,‘,,)?:()!.‘....!:,,.?!:!:‘.() ... : ? . ‘ . : ( ) . . . . . . : ? ( . ) : ( ) , , , , , . . . ‘ . . ! : ( ) , ? : ( ) , . ( . ) : . : ! : ( ) ! : ( ) , . , ‘ . ( , , , . ) : ....(.):,.(,,,.‘.,,.,,,,,.):?:(,,,,,)!‘!‘!‘!(),!(..)!(,)!(,,..):(,)!(... ) : ! ... ( . , . , ‘ , , , , . ) : ( ) ‘ , , ? ( , ‘ , ‘ , . , , . . ) : , , . , , , , . , . , . ‘ . . ‘ . . . , . . ? ? , , , , , , ‘ . ? . . . , . , , . ? . , , . ? ‘ , . . ‘ . ‘ . , . . . . , , . . , ? . . . ? ‘ . . , . ( ) . . ! ( ) ... : ( ) ... ( ) : ( , ) ! : ( , , , ) , , . , , . .‘,,.,.(),.-:...‘..-:.-:‘..:,..(,,,,,,,‘,,,):().:(,)...(.‘,,.‘,,.):(,),‘. ,‘,,,.:(:)....(,,,,.......):()!!!!!!!..()!‘.:,.(),!(...)!!!!.(...):!!(,,. ) : ‘ ? : ( ) . : ( ) ? ( , , . . ‘ . . ) ? : ‘ : ( ‘ ) ? ‘ . ? ( , , . . , , . , , . , , . . ‘ . . . ) : ( , ) , . ( , ) , ? . ? . : . ... : , , , , . , . . . . ? : . : ( ) ! . . . . . ! ( ) ? ! : ( , ) . : ( , , ) ! . . ‘ . . . . ( ) , . . . , ! , . : ( ) . : , , . , . ... : ... ? : ( ) ! . . . , , , , . . . . , ? . . . ( ) ! . : . : ( ) , . , . ‘ . . . . ( ) . ( ) . ? . : ( ) . . , . . , , ... : ( , , ) . , . . . . . ( ) . : ...?:()..‘..().,,.....,,?().!.,?,?,,,?()!(,.):......:(‘),.!()..‘...,.(, , ) . . . . . , , . . . . , ! ( ‘ ) ! : ... : ( , ) ! . ( ) ! ! ? ! ! ( , ‘ ) , . . . ‘ ‘ . , , . . ( ) . . ( ) ! : ( ) ‘ . . . , . . . . ‘ . . . : ( , , ) ... : . . ? . ( ) ‘ . . ( ) . . . : ( , , , ) ‘ ? ‘ ? , ? , . , . ? ( ) ! ( , ) , . . ( ) : ‘ . , ! ! ( , ) . ( . . ‘ , . . ‘ , . , ..):(,).(,,.‘..):()......,.....‘,.()...(.):..:.‘.:..,?:()‘.(,,,.‘.):‘..,. ,,,,.‘,‘,,‘,,‘.?.:(),,.!...?(),......,,,,?:?:.:?‘.:.().:()..,,?,,....:.‘ ,.‘.:..(,)!...,...(),,‘...,.()..‘.,,.,,‘.()!!(,)!()!:..:()‘.,,..:!:().:?: (,..)!,..!.,,‘.(,,)..:‘.:(),?:()‘,.(,.,‘...):().:().:(),.:.:(,),,.,,.(,) ! . ( ‘ ) ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ( , , , , , , , , - , , . ) : ( , ) . ( . ) : ( ) ! ! : . : ( ) . : ( , ) , . ( ) ... : ( , ) ! ( , , ) . . . ! ( ‘ . , , . , , , . ) : . . . . . : . ( . ) ‘ : ! ( . ) : ( ) . , , . . : . : ( ) . : ( ) ‘ ‘ . . : . ‘ . : . . ( , , , , . , , , , . . . . , :) : . ( , , . , , , , :) , , ‘ . ( . , , :) ‘ . , . ‘ . ( , , , . , , , , , , . , , :) , , ! ( . ) : ! : . ( . , , . ) : ( ) ! . ‘ . : ( , ) ? ? ? ? : ( ) .()?(..)?(,.....)!(..):()...‘.‘.:(‘,,.,.),,,,!(.‘.,..):().:‘.!(.):()?.. ? . . . ‘ , . . . ( ) , . . . . . . . . ( . , , . , , . . . . , . . ) : ! ‘ . ( . . . . ) : ( , ) , . : . , ... : ( , ) . . : ( ) . : ( , ) ? : . . : ( ) ? ? ? ( , . ) : ( ) . . : ( ) . . . : ( ) . . , , . , , . . . . , , . . . , , , . ‘ ... ( ) ! : ( , ) . . ‘ . . : ( ) . . . : ( ) ? . , , . . : ( ) . : ( ) . : ( ) . : ( , ) . ‘ . . . . . . ! ( , , , . , , , . ) : ( ) ‘ ‘ , , , , . , . : . . : ( ) ? : , , ‘ . : . . ... . ... ! ( . . . , . , , . ) : ( ) , , ... : ( , ) ! : ( ) ! : ( ) ! : ( ) ! : ! : ( ) ! : ! ( ) ! ! . . ! : ( , , ) ! ( , , , : , , , , . ) : ( , , , ‘ , ,‘,,)!.,,‘.:(,).:()!‘.‘!‘,.,..(.):()‘.:()‘.:()‘,.‘,.:‘,.‘,‘.:(),,,,.,.()‘ . ( ) . ‘ ? , , . . : ( ) ‘ ... : ( ) , , , , ‘ . ‘ ! ‘ . ( , ) ‘ ‘ . ( ) ‘ . . . ( . , . ) : ‘ , ! ‘ ! : ( ) ! : ( ) , ‘ ! ! : ( ) , ! ‘ . , ‘ , ! ( ) : ( ) ‘ . ‘ ... : , , . : . ! . : . ‘ . : , . . ( , , , , , ‘ , , , . ) : ( ) ? ( . ) : ( ‘ , , ) ‘ . ‘ . , . . ( ‘ ) ‘ ? : ( , ) ! ! ! !:...(),...(,‘,)!.‘.(‘,)!!‘.(,).:()...:()..,?:()‘.:,‘..()..‘.(:,,)!(),,. : ( ) . ( ) . : ( ) . . , . . , , ? . ! : ( ) , ! ! ! ? : ( ) , , , , , . . , , , , , , , , . . ... : ( , , ) , , . . . . : ( ) , ? ‘ , ? ! ! ! , ? : . . . : ( ) ‘ , ! - , . . , , , , , , , , , , , . ( ) , ‘ ? : ( ) . . , ‘ . . . : ( ) ! ! , , . : . . ( ) ‘ ... ... : ( ) ! . , ‘ ? , ! ‘ ! . ! ‘ ‘ . . . . : ( ) . ‘ . . . ? , , , ? : ( ) ! ? . ! . ( , , , , . , ‘ , , , , , , , ... ) : ‘ ! . . ... ... : ( ) . ! . , , , , ! ? ? ? ? . ! ! ... : ( , ) : ( ) , , ! ! ‘ . : ( ) ! ! ! ( . . ) : ( ) , . ‘ ? ( ) ! . , , . : , . : , , , ‘ ‘ , . , , , . . ! ‘ , , , , . ‘ . . . ( ) , , ,.‘.()....?().,.(‘)‘!,??(‘)!:.(‘.):!:.:...:().....,,.!..,.‘.!!!(‘)!!,?:( ) . : ( ) . . : ( ) . . , , , , , , . , , , . . . : ( ) , ‘ ! : , ? ( , , ‘ ) ! ! ! ? ‘ , ? , , . ‘ ‘ . . ( ) ‘ ? : ... : ( ) ‘ ‘ . , ! . , , . , ! , , , ! ‘ . ! , ! , ‘ ! , ‘ ? ? ( ) ! : , ... . . . ... : , . . : ! ! ! ! ... ... ... : ( ) , , ‘ . . ( . ) : ! ! : ( , , , , ) ! ‘ ! ‘ ! , ! ... : ( ) ‘ , , . ( , , , , , , . ) : ! ‘ ! , , ‘ ! : , ? , , ‘ , . . ‘ ! ? , , , , , , ? . . , . : ... ... : ( ) ‘ . ‘ . . . ‘ . : . . . . ... : ! ( , . ) : ? . . . ‘ , . : ! ! ... ? ( ) : . ‘ . ! , , ! ‘ ‘ , , , , ‘ , . ( ) ‘ , ! ( ) , ! , ! : ( ) ! ! ! ... ( ) : ( ) ! ! ( , , , , . . , , . .,,,,.,.,,.,,..):(,).:()‘..,.?.?.‘.?,.(..,,.):()..!:()!(),!:(,,)...:!,,, , , , , , . . , , , , . . : ( ) . . : ( ) . . . . ‘ . , . : ? : . , , . , , . , . : ( ) , , , , , . : . : ( ) , . ... , . . . , , . , . ( ) ‘ . , . :()..:?:!:()??:().,...:(),!:().‘....?.(.):.:()..,...:(,‘,)!,!:()??:()? ?...:!:(,,,,,,),.,,‘,(,,),......(,,,,,,,.):!.!():(,,,,)!!!‘.()!:!:(),..(. , . ) ? : ( , ) ? ? : ( ) , . . : . : ( ) , ! : . . . . . . . , , ‘ : . . ... ‘ . . , ? ( , , . ) : ( , ) . . : ... ( ) . . ‘ ... ( , , , . ) : ( ) ! ! : ( , , ) . . ( ) . . . . ‘ . ( , , ‘ . ) : ! ( ‘ , . ) : ( , , , , ) , , , . ... : . ! : ( ) , , . . . ( , ) . . ... ? : ( ) , . . . .

regarding arts & letters

99


Taylor

‘ , ‘ . : . . ( ) ! : ( ) . ! . ( ) , ... ? ( , ) : ( ) . : . ( . ) : ( ) ! ! : ( ) . : ( , , ) ! ! ! : . . , , , . , . . : . : ! , ! : ( , ‘ , ,,).....(,).‘.(..):!(,,.):,‘,,.:()..,?.:(,)!:(,)!!()!.().,‘.....(,,)!:(, ) ! ! ‘ ! , . . , ? ? ? ( ) , , , , ? : ( , , ) ...! : ( ) ‘ . . . . ‘ ? ? , . ( ) ? . , ? , . ( ) . . . . . ( . ) : ‘ . : ( , ) . . . . . . ,‘.‘.:()‘,.()!:(),‘..:,!!:,!!:()?:..()‘.()?‘?()‘‘.(,,..):(),?:,.:(),,.: ‘‘‘‘.:..:.:.(,,).:().‘.‘.‘?(.,,.):()‘.,..(),..:()!.:()..:(,,,)?‘.:().(), , . ( . . ‘ . , , ‘ , . ) : ( ) ! ‘ . ( . . ) , , , , : ( ) ... ... ... ... ... ‘ ?... ! ... ‘ ... ?... ?... ‘ , ... ... ... ‘ . : ( , ) ! , ? ! : ().:()!:.():?:!(,.):,,.‘.:()..().‘.:()‘,..:()?.(..):.:?.(..).:(,).:..:( ) . ? : ( ) . : ? ( ) , , , . . . ‘ . : ? . . . ( ) . . : . , . : ‘ . : , ... : ( ) , . ( ) . ( . ) . . . . ( ) : ( ) . : ( ) . . . . . . ( . .).:..()....:.:().:,.:(,).(‘..):‘...()?:?:(),,.:(),‘!()‘.(),.(),,,‘.(). :..()?:()‘.().,.():(,)..(,,---.):??..(,,,,.):,!.‘!:(‘)‘.:().....:?:..:‘ . ( ) . . : ( ) . : . ‘ ... ( ) ‘ ‘ . ? : ( ) . . . : . ( ‘ ) . . : ( ‘ ) . . : . : ( ) , . . . ? ( , , , . ) : . . . . ( ) : ( ) . . . : , . . :?.....()..?(..,.):?(,,,,,,....):(,)?(.):().()(,,.‘‘.):!??:(,).:‘.:(,) ! . ( ) . : ( ) ! . ! : ( ) . : ( ) , ! ? : ( ‘ , ) ‘ , . ... : ( ) , . ( ‘ ) . , ? : , . , . , . : . ( ) , . ‘ . . : ( ) ! : ? ? ( . ) : , ! ! ! ‘ , , . : ( ) , ‘ . ( ) : ( ) . : ( , ) . : , . , . ? ( ) , ? ... ? ... ? : ( ) , . . . ( . , , . ) : ( ) , ! , ! ! ! : ( ) . , ‘ ! . . . :().‘:(,,)!!‘:(,,)!?:(,)!!!!!!,,,:!!!:().()!(.,,,,.):()‘.()..(‘)!.!:()? : ‘ . : . ... ( , , , ‘ , , , , , . ‘ , . ‘ , , , , , ‘ , . , . ) : , , ‘ ! : , ! : ( ) . ( , , ‘ . , . . , . ) : ( ) ! : ( , ) ! ! : . . . . . . : . . : . ‘ . : ( ) ! . ( , , . ) : ( ) . : ( ) . . ‘ . . ( ) , ! ‘ ! : ! : ! ! : ( , , ) . . . ? ( ) . , , ‘ . : ( , ) ... ! ! ! !... ... : ( ) , . . , . ? . . ( ) : ( ) ... : ( ) ! ! : . . : . : . : . : ( ) . . , . ‘ ? : ( ) ... : , . . . . ( ) ! ! : , ... : , ? ! ( , ) ! ! ( ‘ , . ) : ‘ .(,,,),!?!!.‘.!!.!!(‘,)!!,!(.,,,,,,,.,,,,.,.,,,,,,,,,.,,,.,.):.!!!!!!!!,!! ‘!!(,,,,.,.,,,,‘,,‘,.,,,,.,,,,,,,,..):(),.!‘!:(,,,)!(,,,,.):,!,!(,,.):!.:( ) ! , : ‘ ... : ‘ . ( ) ! ! ( ) ? : ‘ ... ? : ( ) . : ( ) ! ! ‘ ‘ ? ( , ) : ( ) . ( . , . . , , , , , , . , ‘ , ) : ( , ) . ? ‘ ? . ( ‘ . . . , , . . . . . , , , , , . . , . , , . ) : , . ‘ ‘ . . . . . ! . ( ‘ ) ! ! ! ( . , , , . . . , , . ) : , , , ‘ ... ( , , , , , . , . . , , , , . ) : ()!!!!(,,,,.,,,.):.:?:,!:,!:.(.,,,,..):!!!!!(,,.,.,..):!!:(,)!:!!!!(,,,,, .):‘!(,..):!!!!!(,,..):!!!!:,,!:(),!(..‘.‘.):‘.:.!(.):!(‘,....‘,.):‘.(.!) : ! ! ! ! : ‘ ! : . ( ‘ , , , , , , . ! ‘ . . . . ! ) ( . . . . . . . . ) : ! ( ‘ , , , , , . . . . ) : ... ... ( , ‘ ‘ , , . ) : ‘ . ! . ( ) ! : ( ‘)..:(),?.‘?:()!..()!.:(,),....:(,),..,..:().‘.:(),,..:??.‘.,.:!!:..,,,, .:()‘!:()!‘.:().:()!,!:()!!.:(,)!(‘)‘!(‘.):()!():()?:,!!.!:..():(,),!,! :!!!,,!‘!:(),,!,.:!(.‘,,,.):!:!:(‘)!!‘!:!(,,,,.):()!(...,.):(,).:().‘.:? ( ‘ ) , . ‘ . : ( , ) , ? : . : ( , ) ‘ ? . ‘ . : ( ‘ ) ? ? ‘ ? ‘ ... ? : ( ) , . ‘ . . : ( , . , . . ) ‘ . ... : ( ) ! ‘ ! : ( ) . ‘ . ! : ( ,)?:?:,..‘...()?-.‘.:()..??‘!,!()!!:()?().:().!:()‘.:??()‘.?.(..,.,... .......,,‘.,..,,,,,,,,,,,.,,,,.,,,,,,‘.:,,,,,..,,,‘,‘,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,‘,,,,.. ,,,,,,,,,,..‘,,,,,,,,,‘,,,,,,-‘,,,,,,,,,,,‘,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,.):()‘!!!!!!!(,!! .):(,).....:()?:...:,‘...‘.‘?.:—,.‘‘‘.:(‘‘),.()..:.:,..:‘,.,.:()?:(,,). : , . : ( ) ‘ . . . . : ( ) , . : ( ) ? . ... : ( , ) , , , ? : ( ) ? . . , . ( ) . . ( ) . ? : ( , ) . ‘ , . . . ( . ) : ( , ‘ ) , , . : ( ) ?()?()‘..():().:()...,,.().:?‘.:..:.:,..:()‘‘?(.,,,‘‘,‘..,.‘‘..):(,),., . , . ( ) . . ( , , , . . . ) : ( ) . : ( , , ) . . . . . . ( ‘ ) . : . . ‘ . . ! : ( , , ) . . : ! ( ) ‘ ... ?... : , , . . : ( , ) ‘ ‘ . . . . . ‘ , . ‘ . : ( , ) , , . : ‘ . : ‘ . : . . ( - ‘- ‘ . ) : ‘ ! ! . ( , . ) : ! : ( , , ) , ! : ( ) . ‘ . : ( ) ‘ . . : . : , . . : ‘ . . ! ! : ( )!.:(,).:(,),.,:(,),.,‘..(.‘,‘.):‘.(..,.):‘.()...().!:(,,,),,,‘,,!:.?:() , ! . , , . ‘ . ( ) . : ? : ( ) ? . ... , ...! ( ‘ . , . ) : ! , ! , ! ! : ( ) ‘ , ‘ , . , ! ( ) ! ! ! ( ) ? : ? ! ‘ ? ? . : ( ) ! : . : ( ) ‘ .:()...:!(,,,..):,..‘.:??:(),.‘?..:(),!,!,!!!(.,,,,,,.‘.):()‘!,,!.:‘.:() ,.‘.(.):‘.!:.:.:(),.!:‘‘.:(,)‘.:(‘),!?.,,!:(,‘)‘?‘?‘.()!:(,),.:!:‘!‘!,!( .................,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,.....,,‘,........‘..:,‘‘,,‘,,‘‘,,‘‘.,,..., ,,,,.‘,,...,,‘.)‘:.:.‘:().:(‘,).:,!(.):!:,!(.):!(,.):()‘,!‘‘!:(‘),.....() ,!(,,.):()‘?:,.!(),.‘.(.):()..:().‘.:,...:(),‘..().:(‘),.‘.:()‘.(,,.,,,. ,,..):()!!!:().:!‘‘!!?.‘.?‘!‘!:.!:‘!‘?‘.(‘,):().:(,),!:().,.‘!(,,.):‘?:. . . ( ) ? : ( ) ! : ( ) . . ‘ . : ( ) . ... : ? ? : ( ) . : ( ) . ‘ . , . : ‘ . : ( ) , . ‘ . : ( ) . ‘ . ‘ . : ( ) ‘ ? : ( ) . , ... : . ( , ,,.):(),!()‘...:,.:(,)‘.....().?:(),?.(,,.):,.‘.(,),.?,?:().:().(,).,,?

100

re:al


All the Punctuation in Ulysses : ( ) , . : ( ) . ‘ . : , . . : ‘ . : ( ) , . . ( ) ‘ , . . , . : . , . : ‘ , . : ‘ . : ( ) . . . : ‘ . : , . : ( ) , . ( ) : ( ) . ?... : ( , ) ‘ . , . . . . ‘ . : ... : ( ) . , , . . ( ) , , , ? , , ! : ( ) , , ! . , , ‘ ( , ‘ ) ... ( . ) : ! ! : ‘ . ( ) . ? ? , ? : , , , . ( , , . , , . , , . ) : ( ) ! ( ) ! ( ) ! ‘ . ‘ . : , , . . : , , ‘ . . , ‘ . ( ) ‘ . . ! : ( ) . : . ‘ ... ( . . ) : ( , ) . : . ( . , , . ‘ . . . . . . . . . , ‘ , , , . . ) : ! ! ( ; ) ! ( ) . . ( , ) ! ( . . ) ! : ( ) ? . . ( , ) ... ... ... ‘ ?... ( , , . ) : . . . ( ‘ ) . ( ‘ ) . . ( ) ? : ( ) ... ... ... ... . ( , . , , . . . ‘ . ) : ( ) . . . , . . . . ( ) ... , , , , ... ( ) ... ... ‘ ... ... ... ( , , , . , , , , , . , , . ) : ( , ) ! :(,,‘,,.....)——.(‘),,‘,,...,..,,.,,,,‘‘.,,,,,,.,,.,‘,,,,,,.,,,.‘.,,(,,) ,.,‘‘,,‘,,,.,,,,‘‘.,,,,,,,,,‘.,,,,,,.,,,,,.,,,..,,,,..,,().,.—,,...‘,.. —,.,:—!..,‘,,,.,,‘..,,,.().(),,,,,,...‘...‘,,.,,‘..—‘,,‘.—‘,,‘.... —,,,‘,.,..—,.-.,‘,‘().‘.‘‘..‘‘..,,..,....,,.—,,...—,,‘.‘.‘?,..‘‘,.,‘ ,,‘.‘,.‘,‘,‘‘..‘,,.‘..,,,...,,.,,,:—.,,.,,,,,:—,..,,,,?—,..—!,,..,,, ,?.‘..‘‘?—,‘.—,,,,.?.—,.?—,,.,,.,,,,,,,,.,,‘‘,,,,,,,.—,,‘,,,..‘.‘. , , , , , ?, , , , , . — , . ‘ , . , , . ‘ , . — , ! ? ! — . ... — , ! — . — ! ! — ! ... ‘ , , , , , - - , , . . — , , , , ..,,,.,,,,,,:—..?!...,,,:—..—?.,,,.--,.,..—,,.,.,.,..‘?—,,..,,.,,: —?‘,,:—.,,.—?.—‘,.,.—‘,,..—,.:—...—,.....,..—!.,,.—!.,,: —,.‘.—,.—?.—,,,.‘..—,.—‘,....?—,.—‘,..‘..‘.‘.‘,.,.‘‘,.,‘,..,‘ ,.,.!,.‘.,,.,.,,,,..!!,.!!,!...,,:—‘?.—,.,,:—‘....‘.?.......—,,.—, ,‘....,.,,...‘.—,‘,.—,,.,..,,:—!......:.,.,,,,,,().—,..‘.‘..—?.,: —.‘..,,.:,,,,.,.(-‘‘)(..)‘..‘,,,.,,,,,,,,,.,,,,,,,.,,,‘‘.,,,--,,.?.,,-,, .,,..,.,,---.,,.,,,,,,‘,‘,,‘,,‘,,,,,‘.,,.,,.,,.—,,.,,.,,.,.—....—.,.., .!..—‘,,.,.—‘,...,,,,--,,,.,,,‘.,!.,,‘.,,.,,,,,,.—,,...—?.,,,.—,‘, ,,,,,.—?.?-:—‘,,..,.,,,,.,,,,,,..,,,,..,,,,,,,,,,.—,,,,‘.‘.‘,..‘,,‘. —?,,,,,,.—,,,?‘,..—,,..‘..,.‘‘.—,..,,.,.—?.,,...—,,..,,,,,.‘--,. —,,,.‘..,..—,.—‘?.—?.—,,,...:—,..,,,,,,,.,,,(.).,.‘‘‘(,),,,.,,‘. , ‘ . — , . — , , , , . ! . ... , : — . . . . , , ( ) , , , , , , , . , , . — , , , . , , , , , . . , . ? , : — . , , , , , . , : —?‘.,,,.,,,,,‘.—,,,.,,.—?,.‘.‘‘,,.,,‘,,,,‘.‘,?..‘‘.-‘..—‘,,.().,,,( ).,,.,,,.‘.,,‘-.—,..—‘,,‘,,...—,.,.‘..,,.—‘,.?....,,.,,,().,,,.‘. —,‘‘,.,,.,,,.,,,‘,,,,,.‘.(,,,,,,,),.,,.—,,,,,.,.,,,.,(),....,,..‘.—,,. .—,.—,,.—‘,..,,.,.‘..,‘.,,‘,.,,,‘.,,,,,..,,,,,.‘,.(),.....,‘,.,,... —,.,,.‘,,,.,,,,.,,,..,,,,,..—,—.,,.,..,,.,?,,‘,.—,?,..‘(),.--,,,: —‘‘.,!,!.--,,,-‘,,,,..,,.?,,,,..,..,,,,.:.,,..,.—,,..—‘?.?‘?.—,,,. —‘,..‘.?,,.,,,‘.,,,,.,,,,.,,,,,.,?,,,,,,,,,,.,‘,(.)‘,‘‘,..,,(),,(,,),,,, (),,,--,,,,,.,--,..,.,,,..,..—,,..,,‘...‘.?‘.—,,,,.—,.,.,,,..‘....‘,. — ‘ , , ‘ . , , , . . — , . ‘ ... , , , , , , . — , . , . — , ‘ , . , . , , , , . ? . . ‘ . , , . , , . . ‘ . ‘ ‘ ‘ , . ‘ . ‘ . ‘ , , , ,,,.‘‘.‘‘..,,.,,.,,.,,.‘,.—,,.,.,,,.—,,,...‘..,,..?,..—,,.—,.—,,. — , , . . , ‘ . ... ? , , , : — ‘ . . , , , ‘ . . . ‘ . , , , , . ‘ , , , , ( ) . , , , . , , , , , , , , , , . , , , , , , , . , , . , . , . ..,,,,.,,,,,,,,.,,.,.().,,‘.,,,,.‘,..,.,.,.....,.‘.‘........,,..—(),,,.., , ( ) . . ‘ , . : . ( ) , ( - - ) , . , , , , / ( ‘ ) , , . , . , . . , . , ‘ , . , ‘ ,— ‘ . . ( ) . . ‘ . . , , ( ‘ ) . . . , , . — , , ?:.—.,()‘..(),....‘,..,,(.),‘(.),.‘.,().,,()..‘,,‘.‘/.‘...:‘()....‘,.. —,,,.—?,,.,,:....-..‘...,...().,,,..-.,.,,,‘,.,,.....,,,,,:‘..‘.,.,,,,‘ ,,,,,,:,.,,,.—,,,..—,-,.‘.‘..—,--,..,,,,.,,.,,,,,,,,,,.,,,,,,‘.,,.,,? .,.,(,,)(,,),,,,,,‘...,,,,,.,,,,,‘,,.—,,,.,‘.—‘,,.—?,,.,,.,.,,,.—,,, ,?,,,,,,,,,,.(‘),,,,,,‘,.—,,....,,..,,,.,,,,,,.,,,,.,,‘(!).‘.‘,,,..,..,,‘ .,,.?().,,,‘.,,.?.,,.‘,,.,,.,,‘‘,,(‘)()‘‘.,,.‘,.(‘),,(),,,‘‘,:,,,,.,,,,,, ‘,.,,‘,,,,,,,.,,.‘,(),‘.,,.‘,,.—‘?.—,.—!.,‘!—,,..‘,,.().,,‘,,,‘,(,,, ,),‘,,,(),,,,,.,,,.()()(),,..,..‘,,‘,,,.,,‘.,,‘‘‘,(‘)‘,.....--.—,,‘..‘. ?.‘.,,,,‘.—,‘,.(‘),(),,,,,,,,,,,..‘,,.,,‘..‘..—,,,.—,..—?.—,,,,.., ..,,,(),,,.,,,,,(,),,,,,.—,..,,,,.—,.,,.‘,:—.,,‘,,,,,..—(),,,.‘..‘..

regarding arts & letters

101


Taylor

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RE: A portfolio of poetry

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sist Curated by sara henning

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107


Poem After the End of the World

ruth foley

It turns, the world. It keeps turning and if I’m reading too much of other long-dead sorrows, if I’m worried about claiming a sliver for my own, I’m thoughtless. I wish I could be forgotten. That’s a lie—remember me, but better than I think I am, soft as a dog’s ear, or its sleeping breath against your leg. Quieter than now. The world keeps turning, and can’t actually run backwards. Even in dreams, it is always forwards, though I dread whatever is ahead in the undimming. Last night, it might have been Siena— I wanted a museum, wanted relics, a long glass of wine at a small table afterward. Cobbles and a plate of torn bread and torn Italian. Awake, I want to tear it all down, but it keeps turning and the sorrows turn with it until we are dizzy and spun, and lie on the frozen ground, breath stolen.

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Poem After the End of the World

ruth foley

I have a chance to test myself now and see where I hold and where I turn to make a bit of room if someone needs to pass. Today, I read about woodpeckers on the other coast, bulleting holes and stowing acorns, rearranging them as they dry. Long after me, they’ll survive the winter. If I move anything, if anything shifts, the rest will crash and settle. At least then it might be quiet. Before, when the world had not yet paled, I thought I knew disaster. I made plans. I hollowed out a hoarding place. I should have made it big enough for me, a place to curl into sleep like a dog. Turn around three times and maybe it will be ready.

regarding arts & letters

109


Poem After the End of the World

ruth foley

The planets aren’t new, though we call them that— it’s just, we’re finding them, recognizing their orbit. In forty years, the light from our burning will reach whatever sees. The math for how old I’ll be is quick but not necessarily fatal. Friends are making jokes about leaving our orange earth. And would I go? If they have oceans. If they have salt. If I could choose my travelers. The sleep might be worth it, but space stories make me claustrophobic. I love the sea but dread submarines, the crack in the hull, the ballast and its fatal shift. But would I go? If there is moss. If the flutter and glow is guaranteed salvation. If there are no teeth there, or if, when the sun rises, it could reflect on waves I would not fear to recognize.

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Poem After the End of the World

ruth foley

Love, October wasn’t angry and I couldn’t think. We curled, thin strips of paper near a flame. Or perhaps I am remembering another month. Leaves fell. I know that much. And I once read we believe what we are ready to believe, and nobody can tell the truth anyway, so here is mine: if nothing else, we have learned to find each other now. Me shaking, you stunned, standing for your kind, the kind I rail against. Your hand always warm, though you claim it isn’t, and mine always cool, though I say it’s fine. And it’s fine. Maybe tomorrow, we’ll have a fire, watch things burn instead of flipping through old movies that don’t seem the same now. Last night, Bing Crosby in blackface and you: I can’t believe how long that lasted. Everything feels like it’s coming back and not like the greening of spring. Leaves fell, dammit. It was our favorite time of year.

regarding arts & letters

111


“Dr. Manhattan? More Like Dr. Staten Island!”

daniel Shapiro

The Orange Menace tells everyone he can teleport but cannot risk not being seen for a split second. The Orange Menace tells everyone he can manipulate atoms but splits only large bills into strip-club ones. The Orange Menace tells everyone he has super-genius intelligence but tries to whisper in all caps. The Orange Menace tells everyone he has superhuman strength but needs someone to lift his golden spoon. The Orange Menace tells everyone he can d i s i n t e g r a t e. The Orange Menace tells everyone he has a perfect memory but forgets the last time his wife said “love.” The Orange Menace tells everyone he has precognition but will never be able to dodge the slaps of women. The Orange Menace tells everyone he can self-duplicate but can’t keep his other version from crying. The Orange Menace tells everyone he is unable to fight Dr. Manhattan because of bone spurs. But he has no bones.

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“Spider-Man Has Sticky Coming out of Wherever”

daniel Shapiro

The Orange Menace always has it up to here. He promises unmaskings but has yet to unmask. “@Spidey4real jumps around in pajamas. Stupid,” he writes. “And disgusting. I’m a germaphobe.” The Orange Menace soaks Mydas flies in wine from his vineyard. He places the flies—largest in the world—from block to block, leading to an alley patrolled by only the finest goons. The Orange Menace expects to succeed quickly. Heroes weaken when exposed to a name brand, even when they need luxury explained to them. Their fingers-crossed yeses clink like glasses. The Orange Menace can be less than patient. He has his driver bring the car around, stops in the alley to find the finest goons in goo, plus a note: “I would’ve preferred plain flies.” The Orange Menace has lost the power to shriek. He believes in the punch of words, a vocabulary tiny enough to fit in his fist. He strings the same adjectives, nouns, verbs, each tweet a porous web.

regarding arts & letters

113


Dear Carole, I’ve Been Meditating on Transgression

sarah chavez

I already know how that sounds to you, but keep your snide, ghost-mouth shut. If you only knew how transgressive you actually were and really how we are. I mean, break down the fucking word – Trans = across, through Gress = taking steps, walking Ive = tendency to, having the nature, character or quality given to It’s all just movement, disregard for space (transmute). You are doing it now, right now. Your presence all cold wind and shiver bumps from the solidness you once inhabited while we had these little chats. And this is not new, you’ve always disregarded space. That bright pillowy body taking up twice the national average, hair swinging madly two feet from root to tip in the wind. The way we said fuck your boundaries abandoned house! the lock on the window we cracked open, the door we didn’t ask to enter. Our picnic on that empty new linoleum, deliciously cool against the back of our legs, the grapes we feasted on fine like the wine they might’ve transferred into had not our teeth transmogrified their waxy flesh. The way we shrunk polite distances sitting arm and arm on the bus, except in the heat. I held your hand in the empty food court at Manchester outside the Dairy Queen and you said, If someone sees us they are going to think we’re together. And you said it not like a bad thing,

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but like a warning, like a “do you see this line, the line across the table we are not supposed to cross?” Are you purposefully crossing this line? I can’t remember seeing the line though, I suppose I knew it was there, but frankly, in the end, “on purpose” is bullshit anyway. We do what we do and rewrite history any damn way we choose; that’s how aggressive our progressive transgression is.

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115


In This New Age

sarah chavez

I can no longer suffer the weight of singularity all representations of myself: mad mestiza, queer and quarrelsome, three big letters after a working-class name, short, caustic, inappropriate laugher, crying at Brokeback Mountain, at the pictures of pets on friends’ Facebook wall, while listening to early Ani Difranco albums I thought wouldn’t be relevant 20 years later. The line, I’ve got better things to do than survive, so much more resonant. The promise of tomorrow not real when I was 15. But at 25, at 35, I’ve tasted, if only in fleeting moments, comfort and inclusivity, modicums of respect. There were times I’ve been heard and that someone who heard me, was an 18-year-old Nebraskan Latina, first in her neighborhood to go to college, funded by everyone but her working-poor family, and sharp as a machete who didn’t know the title Ms. existed. Her deep brown eyes wide, she said, “yeah, it isn’t anyone’s goddamn business.” A lesson capped with an explanation that cussing is in fact appropriate in the right contexts, and that was the right context, her anger at uncovering yet something else created to hold her back, visceral and necessary. Someone who heard me being a 62 year old, drug-recovered thief in a prison classroom, finally understanding that looking up how to spell a word doesn’t mean you’re dumb, it shows you’re smart enough to know you need help, smart enough to find that help. Brave enough to try.

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I’ve built my life’s ethos on moving forward, always forward, further and further away from the ignorant shell I was yesterday and the yesterday before that. This is not a straight line, but it sure as hell doesn’t mean going back. I will not be complicit in going back.

regarding arts & letters

117


#notesonsexualharrassment #stringofbeads

lee ann roripaugh

pulls down his pants in front of the visiting writer wants to have sex with both of you, though months later, when he’s drunk again, says you’re the one he wanted to have sex with more sober the next day, he cries into the phone / so lonely in his marriage tries to kiss you / you say no grabs at you / you say stop doesn’t care, he says, what anyone thinks gives you permission to do whatever with your lover when your lover’s in town, but afterwards, he says, you and he are going to be together at 3:00 a.m., yells out your name in the hallway pounds on your door / won’t stop / won’t go away (you’re curled in the corner of the room, triggered, silently weeping / because the last time a man this drunk pounds on your door at 3:00 a.m., he breaks down the door and you wake in the hospital with a concussion, two black eyes, a split lip, ruptured eardrum) (afterwards, your father demands to know what’s wrong with you, says he’s raised you to have more self-respect / and when you tell him children who grow up in abusive homes unconsciously replicate those abusive relationships again as adults, he says: I never hit your mother)

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(yes, but you hit me) pulls down his pants in front of the visiting writer a mutual friend says: you got him fired for that? another insists: he was drunk and didn’t know what he was doing! a colleague asks: but was it really that bad? (how to admit that, at first, you actually minimize the badness / because the door isn’t broken down / because you don’t wake in the hospital with a concussion, two black eyes, a split lip, ruptured eardrum) gives you permission to do whatever with your lover when your lover’s in town, but afterwards, says you and he are going to be together the next day he cries into the phone / having such a hard time in his marriage tries to kiss you / you say no grabs at you / you say stop you tell him it’s never going to happen pounding on your door at 3:00 a.m. slurring your name in the dark doesn’t give a fuck, he says / what anyone else thinks

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119


The Last Time I Got Tattooed, Two Men Sat in the Shop Hypothesizing Aloud About Why Women Frequently Return to Men Who Abuse Them, Ultimately Concluding in Consensus that Women Enjoy Being Assaulted by Men Fox Frazier-Foley For Saumya My grandmother lived alone in the country at eighty on a ninety-acre farm that was more wilderness than farm at that point and she slept with a carriage gun under her bed. She with her blue eyes taught me to respect guns and women with guns if not women my mother with her blue eyes taught me to straighten my untamable mane to lower my voice to use my dark eyes appropriately lowered like my voice saying please and thank you as in Please don’t Please stop doing that

please stop

I grew older I had boyfriends and other men who taught me what happens to quiet pretty or quiet not pretty enough please stop The day Hillary Clinton was elected 45th President of the United States of America by the people of the United States of America she lost to I spent that day in a strip club. The kind that only serves soda and does full nudity before noon. I was there to interview some of the dancers in the morning. I had to use the bathroom and there were eight dancers, Juicy-clad, looking relaxed and laughing in their sweatsuits and thongs backstage which is where the bathroom was and the stall door was nonexistent and they didn’t seem to mind at all which sort of made sense when I thought about it

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a couple of the bouncers came back and they were teasing one about how he was getting married next month but in a way where really they were celebrating him and complimenting his fiancée and then in the main area of the club there were these men that I still all these months later I still can’t describe or breathe when I try to describe them and one of the dancers came up to me and asked if she could give me a private dance and I was caught off-guard (because she knew I was there to talk with her and her co-workers, and to listen to their stories, and not there to receive private dances?) and I said no thank you and she took my hands and asked if I was sure she couldn’t and I said no thank you and she released my hands and slinked across the club to one of the men and I realized and I couldn’t breathe and then of course I wanted to say yes but it was too late and then I went to vote and then I went home and watched her be elected by the people and my husband fell asleep and when he woke up he said Madame President and I said no and he said but that’s impossible and it’s hard for me to put this into a poem because I refuse to render in beautiful language all the things that happened in the days after that and some of my friends and I kept joking, during those days, about getting IUDs and guns but then all five of us actually went out and took the tests and did the paperwork and waited the necessary number of days while someones checked our backgrounds and a few days later a white lady in a Ralph Lauren sweater interrupted me while I was speaking to one of my friends to tell me that more guns are never the answer and asked me whether I had tried meditating or singing to focus on my light and when I say it’s difficult to put this in a poem and when I say I find myself resisting the impulse to render this in language that will dizzy or swoon or seduce you what I’m trying to say is bother me in the street today & I’ll scream it won’t be for help my husband taught me the exact

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121


Frazier-Foley spot on the bridge of your nose to smash with my forehead like a soccer ball I’m not obligated to explain shit how to shoot

to my grandmother taught me & I guess really what she taught me is that I like guns

hot noise that makes you feel as though you yourself are popping open falling gold ammunition’s tiny weight variations the choreography of all the safety rules not unlike an archaic etiquette manual intended to keep you alive. The aesthetic: barrel, cylinder, hammer grip & sight. The simplicity of my body is not contestable territory because I say it’s not. Maybe there’s a reason we’re told to shun that which makes us dangerous to those who would

these lessons: cried & tried

There was a time when I resisted so hard to figure out

how to make myself acceptably cute inside of them (I mean, with your ethnic nose, cute is the best you can hope for. The best you can hope for, she said before I had surgery to look more like the women in my family who are

just being honest). In the first draft of this poem, I wrote that I refuse to straighten or stain my raven & silver hair any more: let the dark wires thrash from my scalp/ thrive in their wild/ gyrate defiance I wrote. But then I got scared of things that have already been said to me or done to me my eyes are green now and my hair is auburn I love how I look and I hate

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The Last Time I Got Tattooed...

& don’t hate that I adapted to

please stop

I believe that a gun is a spiritual weapon. weapon. I paint

please

I am a spiritual

my skin from the inside needle it to bleeding plumage that heals brightly but never stops keening

please

please

motherfucker please try to stop me from howling down what’s mine.

regarding arts & letters

123


The Exhibitionist danielle sellers Here comes this guy, a poor man’s Scott Foley, who wouldn’t like his profile? I am, after all, just a woman, looking for a man, age 33-55, within a hundred mile range. 10 minutes in, he sends me a dick pic. His long-fingered fist gripping the shaft, a cum-drop cresting the eye, like dew, or a single tear. After five nights of just a hey baby and a dick pic, I blocked his number, but I like to imagine him every night, still sending his dick out, like a desperate S.O.S. Perhaps by now, it has made its way into space, winking its way through the void, charting new territory, going farther and longer and faster than any dick has ever gone.

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Nous Sommes in a Texas Parking Lot

danielle Sellers

When we got back to the car, we split a loaf of French bread between us. The steam lifted from it like a ghost leaving its body. On the radio, the newscaster was saying something about an attack in Paris, a magazine ambushed by gunmen, an unknown number of fatalities. My daughter thinks the word fatalities is pretty. It lilts on the tongue like nightingale. She wants to know what it means. I want to lie. I want to say, it’s a type of bird or a French word for cheese. One day she will know the meaning of all words. She will become afraid of using them without dying. Comment c’est dit, someone drew a cartoon, someone killed them for doing it.

regarding arts & letters

125


The Germany Poems

Danielle Sellers

I. It was bright and clear when I arrived in Frankfurt. February had been a blur of grey. In the taxi to the American base town, he said I’d brought the sun. A fast polka on the radio. An accordion’s huff and whine serenaded our first kiss in eleven years. At the hotel, we barely got the key through the door before my clothes were off and I was under his broad chest in my white lace bra. He couldn’t believe I was there. He was dreaming. He was burning inside me. That night at the brau haus, I went without panties in a short dress. The steaks came buttered on a hot plate, and I wanted to straddle him at the table. On the long walk home, he took me against someone’s wall, rough and fast, the way we both needed. II. That church bell, the waiting, the purr of pigeons, that papery castle on the hill, nearly crumbling with each cold gust of wind.

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III. Among the lichened ruins of Heidelberg castle, I reached for him and for the first time he pulled away. That night, I rented a room in the best hotel. We ate filet mignon with capers. It nearly snowed at the table. When he turned in I cracked opened his email account, read his letters to that Dallas blonde. He told her he was here touring the Altstadt with his Army pals. IV. For a summer, I lived in a small room I rented from a mountainous German named Rolf. The room had two single beds, a digital alarm clock, a snowy television, a rectangular bureau, a nightstand, a lamp, and a bathroom with a shower. When he was off duty, we’d push together the beds, watch German talk shows where men dressed like women and women dressed like milkmaids. I was dying to see more of Europe. The sliding glass door opened onto a poured concrete balcony which overlooked the Bahnhopf and a roof. On the roof lived two standard schnauzers. Their fur was matted. They drank from puddles and slept in barrels turned on their sides. Every morning Rolf set out breakfast: coffee, tea, boiled eggs, sausage, isosceles triangles of Kase,

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Sellers yogurt with honey, dried apples, warm Brötchen, butter, orange marmalade. It was pleasant to sit in the wood-paneled dining room and read. Back then I was reading The Travels of Marco Polo. I asked him once about the dogs on the roof. Oh ja!, he said. His face crinkled. Those are mine. Aren’t they fine? V. Those nights he couldn’t leave the base, I came to him. His Army brothers hadn’t seen an American girl in months. They knew all about me, even though he was the silent type. Young German prostitutes roamed the halls in spandex skirts. It was rumored the base was closing. There was a sense of urgency in their eyes. In the MEN ONLY bathroom, condoms undulated in the toilets like sea anemones. His roommate was blond and had a buzz cut. He was lithe and dimpled, spoke in a country accent, the kind of guy I went for in my early twenties. They had built a wall between their cots with Budweiser cans. Our dates were action movies and video games that simulated flying. And when we tired of that there was burgers and bowling. Yet all I wanted to do was sit quietly across from one another. I wanted him to see me. Really see me. VI. That library of yellow books in a language he couldn’t read. That Bahnhopf across the street, those trains and the absence of trains.

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The Germany Poems VII. His barracks, the thinly partitioned rooms, the velvet mini-skirts of German teenagers trying for babies. IX. I wanted a baby. Other men in the future were like dim figures. I could barely make out their features. He was not well, but he had the bluest eyes. In high school, he treated me like a queen. X. That Friedberg Gasthaus. That dark-paneled dining room, that breakfast of bitter coffee cold meat warm rolls. That upstairs room with two singles struggled together. That balcony overlooking the schnauzers who lived on the roof, who drank from puddles. I wanted to rescue them, all of them—

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The Truest Fiction is Fiction

rodney gomez

and the artless leaves fall first in autumn and the sunrise goes to the worst of men unless they give it all away, but they grow worse in the giving. If there is an honest man in this world I haven’t seen his carpentry. And the rumors go back to the calculus of hands or how many thistles a mouth can carry. The ocean is nameless, but objects without names can still be seized, and made to fetch, or tremble, depending on the moon, or the mood of the woman who walks them. An animal of any kind grows old and dies:

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loses its nest, loses its fangs and compass, like lacquer stripped from frames and replaced by meaningless scrollwork.

There is always a wall, and plaster, and beams fastened to beams, and in a thousand years a husband will still cheat on his wife, a bully will bumble, a tycoon will steal from the very town that feeds him. And in the sky a dim-witted sun, and in the sky the red tinge of greed sealing up the stars.

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While Walking the Market, I Kiss the Bullet There’s a singsong palpitation in the muscle above my wrist

Rodney Gomez

that keeps me in orbit of a heart attack. Maybe a stroke? I tell myself death wouldn’t be so bad. Is it romantic to bite the literal bullet in the alleys of Reynosa? Or pathetic not knowing which way the primer decides to sway? I’d gone to buy nopalitos and knockoff Plavix. I wore a shirt with Saint Malverde to scare off feds. The shopkeeper invited me to tacos al pastor. What was the last thing he ate, I wondered. When he dropped he was in the middle of a protest: Los estan cobrando mucho de agua. And what would he think of the deep waiting for him on the other side? And why was I left to break down over another mysterious bout of fatigue? And why am I unable to move when confronted with the most feeble calamities of this world?

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Unsettle / Dissolve

arden levine

I. Settlement They arrived safely, encampment becomes homestead. But no one lives where water and land intercept. Each demands the other’s surrender. Rain thrashes her body against windows. Soil pushes her back into bed. II. Solution Here is the parting of substance from substance. Solute says to solvent: I have evaporated, you remain. No: In truth, it was suspension. They clung. They never melded. (Then, with shallow wave, the ocean abandons the sand.)

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Impact

Steven sanchez

San Francisco slips through our hands, one high rise then another sinking inside our woven fingers fault lines we carry. A man approaches. Our grip tightens. His face hangs above our own reflection in the night bus window. Even here we know the dangers of two men touching. You’re really brave. He cuffs his sleeves, slides them up his forearm. A red ribbon wraps around his wrist, a date inked between his veins. You give me hope. He tells us his late lover died over twenty years ago, when others say our bloodlines were first poisoned, contaminated aquifers we can’t filter like water tables in the San Joaquin Valley, sinking every year, the elevation dropping

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over fifty feet in a decade. The deeper we drill the more water becomes poison, saturated with minerals our body can’t absorb, something so natural it kills. Another man enters the bus and we stop talking. Our reflections rattle, our bodies an epicenter the spine designed to bow and bend in any magnitude, our ribs doorframes we brace against.

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135


Predator

Steven sanchez

Black ears, brown fur, we try to blend with night. I’ve learned my place is to be aware of the lion’s path, where she roams, where I must hide and lower my head farther, allowing her pride to feed on others. Don’t run or walk alone or walk in herds or loiter— lions will charge like bullets. And when that bullet pierces skin like a fang lodged into the trachea, the heart, an artery, we know they don’t stun us— they kill us. Brown eyes rest on the sides of my face, proof I’ve evolved to look at the ground

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and never make eye contact with strangers. In their low growls I hear stories about who we are and our rightful place in their jungle. Our life drips from the mouths of those who prey.

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Asphyxia

Steven sanchez

Gas canisters clink in a concrete room and his sergeant commands Take off your mask. He holds his breath. The heat of tear gas, gray and solid at room temperature solders his lungs, each nerve fused, his chest an urn gathering ash. He hobbles towards the eclipse at the entrance, now an exit where light expands. His eyes swell shut. A man clutches his shoulder the way anyone does when drowning. He learns to fight. The voices of sergeants command him to push through the deluge of men. In his blood, oxygen fades like memory,

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139


Bullet

stephanie dugger

A pop of glass, the smell of burning metal. We were eating clementines, watching Food Network. Light pressed through a clean hole in two curtains —in through one window, out through another. We didn’t hear the car slow, gun fire, tires screech. I don’t remember turning off the television, but the room fell silent. * I haven’t lost anything: a few days, these panes of glass. When I was young, I thought the mice hurrying in the walls, were demons sent to possess my body. I could hang a crucifix

we don’t believe. *

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A dream: We are back on the couch, talking. He walks in. I know something is wrong. He pulls a gun. You don’t see him. I hold a pillow to my head as he shoots, feel the bullet enter my brain, see him walk to you. I feel paralysis, death washing warm over me and cannot remember to surface. * Cats climb their way over the neighborhood. They run under cars, scatter from the backyard like mice under a kitchen sink. As cars slow in front of our house to miss them, I think What’s next? This is obsession: waiting for the break of glass, click of a pistol cocked. There is a hollow whisper of repentance in the trees. I hold my breath at night so it won’t drown out warning signs, listen to branches scrape the bedroom window.

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141


Faithful

stephanie dugger

The sky, relentless

turns. Each new night the stars have shifted

slightly. This is not what I thought

as a child. It seemed fixed,

dependable. If I brush along the baseboards, I find nails embedded deep to keep us from feeling. And what about you? Why don’t I see you when I’m weeding, biking, cooking? Only in sleep, and you’re there so often, no questions, no assuming I am guiltless. That day in the park, I was thinking about leaving, about what I had gotten myself into.

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But of course you knew that, of course you knew. You saw it all over my face.

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143


Playing Battleship

judi rypma

Too humid outside so we’re sipping piña coladas game boards propped open like dueling shark jaws each attacker guessing coordinates. Forcing the opponent to poke tiny plastic pieces into holes on a fake sea. I sink his destroyer without remorse for what I could not see. My husband mutters the bushes need edging prefers to attack our yard as if it were a tropical forest and I mention how I love vegetative hiding places used to play Hide and Go Seek in the neighbor’s cedar hedges enfolded in boughs soft as a mother’s arms. Secure no one would find me. He lights a cigarette. Lobs an imaginary grenade to sink my battleship.

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Suddenly confesses what it was like to be It capturing prisoners binding arms overhead with sticks or bamboo if machetes were handy handing captives to the Koreans where they’d lose more than they planned on. His mind still dwells in a jungle he fought his way out of fifty years ago while I was skirmishing with sixth grade math, snippy classmates bouts with a blade mower. Blood sun slants through a window same shade as the Red Ball Jets emblazoned on heels that long ago raced curfew in a game of freeze tag as we whipped one another across clipped grass. Left arms and legs akimbo, sprawled in awkward positions. Smug in the knowledge we’d resurrect friends with a touch. Would never need to zip them up remove them in body bags.

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145


Float Trip

alyse bensel

That teenager in a Confederate flag bikini could be my new Disney princess of hate. She could conjure the waters into whirlpools. She could pop open rafts with rocks she turns blade sharp. She could hold that blood red Jell-O shot like a cursed ruby, place it in her braided crown. She could quicken the current and not do much of anything else, maybe toss her Coors to the wind, blow me her rebel kiss.

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Sansa to Snow White

Erin elizabeth smith

Somewhere in the black, your cuffed dress caught on every branch and the screech owls fierced through the sky like dragons. When all the eyes blinked open for you, the world softened. Fauns and kits, the doe-eyed bluebirds beating back song. For you the world was broomsticks and saucier pans. It was a trill in your soprano, the faces of dwarves that blushed from your glanced lips not another woman’s turned breast. When your prince came, he swept you from sleep into the dueting scroll of clouds. Love, never let a man take you on his horse. The skyline castle is full with shadow your voice can’t raise and your thin glass beauty never gets very far. Sleep instead. That forever is not so long, so dark, or so deep.

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Self-Portrait as Resistant Subject You cannot hear over the ruckus— hangover head, lingering dry cough, snowbound imaginary children i.e., dogs. You need a haircut. You need a new suit. You need to change the oil. You need some coffee to scald your cold tongue, to trick yourself springward, to dissolve the impulse to sprawl inside a solid-state space heater.

les kay

No one told you that the promise of progress may not apply. One need not apply without a haircut, a shave, two bits, six bits, et cetera. You, for example, remember nothing so clearly as your death. No, not that one. The shrub-edged cul-de-sac . . . . No? The second floor apartment where dogs weren’t allowed, a white parakeet froze. . . . There are feathers in your coffee pot, heating coils in your left breast pocket, shears to run with, strapped to your ankle like a twenty-two, like a solidstate monitoring device. Fuck you and the metaphor you rode in on. Coffee kills. You’re scared we won’t see the donuts for the glaze, won’t see ourselves imagined into. We won’t.

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My Teaching Philosophy

les kay

Is a starling—one that hasn’t left Ohio in December, a stag crossing an interstate, a precipitous dip in the Dow, a dance club at seven AM. It is a freight train hauling cotton, an echo of older forms, marginalia on a first draft of a one-day genius, a conversation turning, suddenly as in a sonnet or in the midst of a weekend lost to talk shows and sleep. It is filling and refilling a mug on which a monkey wears a red bow tie, a four-beat line that slips its rhythms, a missive to tomorrow, a lament, not mine. It is a song for other singers, a record that never makes the radio, a few breaths to chisel whatever you need to smash—one day— the curious notion that any voice matters more than yours. A few tips to help you be heard, a prayer you will.

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Revelations 19

Jim warner & beth gilstrap

My heart burst the first time I saw a man die. I didn’t know him, but happened upon his car on fire. He had rigged a length of hose from tailpipe to window and all it took was a spark, his foot wedged on the pedal telling the car to go, go, go, break into a gallop among lingering wheat stalks. The sky winter clear—an angel—container full of flame, gasoline, and a desperate man. I was thirteen and took the alcohol offered once the cops were gone, knowing when my hand touched the ceramic, when the heat hit my esophagus, I should not have borne witness—the images would transfer and sleep in my diaphragm, restricting my breath for every animal and person I couldn’t save. There would be thousands. And these days, the sleeping leach wakes and slumbers, wakes and slumbers, and will keep on keeping on until I die fighting. But here, now, I cry at the sight of your ribs because I’m hooked to metal, powerless, my knees numb beneath me. murphy’s law
 stray dog 
handcuffed to a police bumper

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Dischord No. 8

Jim warner & beth gilstrap

You like your laces tight, red in the left boot, green in the right. It’s Christmas and the room moves like it could pop with the adrenaline of a hundred bodies—a segmented, many-legged creature, bound tight. No air, only bursts of white light and sweat and emotion pooling in your ache of jawbone, in the shove to your chest, in the hands pushing you up and over, hands racing up your shirt, squeezing your ass, your crotch, and you’ve no control with your face close to the ceiling, pressed into the graffiti from those who came before you. Tougher girls than you. Women. Women who cut their hair short and dyed it blue. Women who burned. Women who didn’t cry when they were alone. Six-foot-tall women who see you. Who see you’re in trouble, grab you by the wrist, yank hard. You are airborne for the last seconds of the guitar solo. But your feet—those boots—land like concrete. You straighten your back, swing. All you can think is I love you, I love you, I love you and someday, you’ll know my name. black flag

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a brick wall paints my knuckles

151


Still Life with Burned Mouth

rachel mennies

Who taught you pain would erase your longing? Why bite the ribs from the habanero’s skin before running your knife through its flesh? Who taught you to pestle the seeds you saved to a pulp, to suck your fingers, weeping until numbness narrows your throat? Why grip your bare shoulders and burn? Why press palms to scorching skin so useless, it wants a man who will never touch you again? How will you unlearn this? Why does relief prove its madness

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by dragging your mule body to the next green man, already hard for you, already waiting? Who forgot to teach you relief ?

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153


Pace

Heidi czerwiec

In a Minneapolis surreal season 2017, a February of first forty-, then fifty-, even sixty-degree days. When streets break free of ice, I break free of lurid headlines on my laptop, breaking news each day more depressing, oppressive, and ever more surreal. I tie on my running shoes, take nothing with me, step outside. The strong sun warms me; I warm up, jog around the neighborhood we moved to in late fall, its layout not yet innate. Pay attention, this new landscape I’m navigating. The homes nearest ours all post-War colonials and cottages, but further south, a slide to gentrified add-ons, some attempting to blend in, others remodeled implausibly into Tuscan villas, Tudor manors. I turn, return to the cuter houses whose character I admire, their yard signs I like. “All Are Welcome Here/ Todos son bienvenidos aquí.” “Doggie Watering Hole” next to a brimming steel bowl. “Black Lives Matter” next to “Thank You St. Louis Park Police,” sharing a yard, an apposition I approve. High-five, house! I go slow, out of practice, puddles and patches of ice vying for my attention with birds and old oaks and houses to look at. I’m happy. My body’s happy – my back and shoulders’ slight loosening, not hunched so near my ears. I’m passing a cluster of bright red cardinals, territorial and boisterous in their hedge when, hung outside a house, a rainbow banner with white lettering: “PACE.” Pace, I say jogging along, mindful of my breath – breathe in brisk air for two strides, then out my mouth two more. A comfortable, comforting pace.

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Not till I walk in my door, grab water and, compulsively, my phone, I realize it’s no pace flag meant to motivate the neighborhood’s runners. Not “pace,” but pace, “peace.” Perhaps a necessary slippage, error that reveals a truth. Synchronicity that presents itself when I’m primed to pay attention. I delete the Facebook app from my phone, the latest outrage no longer literally at hand, incessant newsfeed screaming at me when I unlock its screen. We must pace and pace ourselves – for ourselves – to work for, and achieve, peace.

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Royal Fern (Osmunda regalis)

jordi alonso

“Ferns are our thing,” she says. “They’re everywhere in the apartment.” “I noticed,” I say, and she laughs. Looking up from the bed in the living room where we’ve spent the day together, smoking weed, drinking, and watching TV, I notice a broken shadow on the wall––in Japanese, they call that komorebi, light passing through leaves. A royal fern hangs from the ceiling in a clear glass globe, like an inverted antique lamppost, and I wonder why English doesn’t distinguish between our––“hers and mine,” and our––“hers and his.”

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157


Usage Error: Deep-seeded

jenny yang cropp

I am grasping at dirt. First knuckle, then elbow, then shoulder-deep in it, I have dug myself a hole. It isn’t that I think I can escape, find myself on the other side of the world. It isn’t that I think playing in the dirt is good for the soul. This isn’t about nature or mindfulness. Maybe I just believe in digging, the process of it, dirt beneath the nails giving me something to wash away at night. Or maybe I like watching my hole become a pit, my pit become a place to hide things. Like my rag doll’s plucked eye or a list of curse words tucked into a triangle and passed to me. A wire stripped from my bra and used to pick a lock. The night of our attempted suicides. Boys and girls brandishing their weapons. My collection of sharp edges. I can leave them here. Deep beneath the dirt. I can bury them in this red clay. This is how we thrive in a hostile environment, how we manage to take root.

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Usage Error: Broomweed

Jenny yang cropp

These are not our fences. These are not our yards to cross, our walls of summertime chiggers strung from post to post and drinking from damp laundry, but we rush through them anyway, and we are not caught. We are not bit. I like to think of the world this way, when we’re walking low in the space between the yards as the sun pinks and purples a brown horizon, knowing it’s getting past eight and nearly time to head home, as if home wasn’t the place we’d been running from all day. I like to think of us unafraid. There’s time enough for truth. For now, I can hurl my body over a barrier as if it has never been chased by a boy with a sling-shot, as if it has never been bruised or bled by a brick or pole, as if the top of each rusted chain-link fence isn’t a saw someone put there to teach my hands a lesson. For now, these are fields of sweet yellow flowers we’ve landed in, and our hearts are made of medicine.

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Lament

grace Bauer

Because lament is the way of the world and this morning the world feels in the way. Because the chime outside my window sways in the wind but makes no sound. Because buds burst on the limbs of the sycamore as bombs are bursting over cities I can barely pinpoint on a map. Because I name most every tree I put in a poem sycamore because I do not really know trees but love the sound of that word. Because with trees the burst is silent. Not so with bombs. No matter if we call them smart or call them I.E.D.s.. Because the headlines in the paper I read sound too much like headlines I have read before. Because they use words like casualties and coalition. Words like collateral damage.

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Because we are meant to accept such damage as mere side effect, part and parcel of a cure. Because some still believe there is no war we cannot win. Because I’m not sure there’s any war we can.

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Be/Attidude

grace bauer

Blessed are the meek all the geeks and the freaks in their awkward habitation of their bodies Blessed are the losers the poor slobs and the schmoozers and the users who end up being used and abused by the haves who always will have and still want more and believe they deserve it and need someone to serve it to them because aren’t they too good, too important, to serve themselves and isn’t that the way God intended the natural order even Darwin saw as the way the world survives bosses thriving on losses that leave more for them and those who already have more than anyone really needs

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Blessed are the good deeds that come with their pedigrees their largesse like water for the bad seeds, those weeds that will always be there like the poor knocking at a door that never opens Blessed are those who weep those in so deep they cannot sleep because there is no rest for the weary – or is it the wicked? I have heard it said both ways. But evil seems to be one of the few things that stays constant in this world that is as it was, perhaps, in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be -with or without end for better or worse both blessed and cursed. And ours.

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Contributors

N.T. Arévalo’s stories have appeared in Shenandoah, Necessary Fiction, Rose & Thorn Journal, Waterhouse Review, and Eclectica and received Honorable Mention in the 2014 Bevel Summers Prize Contest. She’s been a contributor to Literary Arts, an advocate for human rights and expression, and currently manages a community theatre program. Jordi Alonso graduated with an AB in English with an emphasis in Creative Writing from Kenyon College in the spring of 2014, where he studied poetry and literary translation. He was the first Turner Fellow in Poetry at SUNY Stony Brook where he received his MFA, and is now a Gus T. Ridgel Fellow at the University of Missouri, Columbia where he is a PhD candidate. He has been published or has work forthcoming in Kenyon Review Online, Noble/Gas Qtrly, Roanoke Review, Edible East End, and Fulcrum among other journals. His first book, a collection of erotic poems inspired by Sappho entitled Honeyvoiced was published by XOXOX Press in November of 2014, and his chapbook The Lovers’ Phrasebook came out earlier this year from Red Flag Press Grace Bauer is a Professor of English, Creative Writing, and Women’s Studies at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. She is the author of Mean/Time (University of New Mexico Press) and The Women At The Well (SFASU Press). Alyse Bensel is a PhD candidate in Literary Studies and Creative Writing at the University of Kansas. Her recent poems have appeared in The Adroit Journal, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Quarterly West, New South, Bone Bouquet, and elsewhere. She is the author of two chapbooks, Not of Their Own Making (dancing girl press) and Shift (Plan B Press), and serves as the Book Reviews Editor at The Los Angeles Review.

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J. A. Bernstein’s story collection, STICK-LIGHT, was a finalist for the Robert C. Jones Prize and the Beverly Prize and is forthcoming from Eyewear Editions. His novel, RACHEL’S TOMB, won the Hackney Award and Knut House Novel Contest. His stories and essays have appeared in Tampa Review, Kenyon Review Online, Boston Review, and other journals, and won the Gunyon Prize in Literary Nonfiction from Crab Orchard Review. He has also published academic articles in The Conradian and Western American Literature. He is an assistant professor of English at the University of Minnesota Duluth and the fiction editor of Tikkun. Jenny Yang Cropp’s new chapbook, Not a Bird or a Flower, is forthcoming this summer from Ryga: A Journal of Provocations. Her full-length poetry collection, String Theory (Mongrel Empire Press), was a 2016 Oklahoma Book Award finalist. She received an MFA in creative writing from Minnesota State University-Mankato and a PhD in English from the University of South Dakota where she served for two years as the managing editor of South Dakota Review. She currently teaches English and creative writing at Cameron University, where she serves as a faculty editor for The Oklahoma Review. Poet and essayist Heidi Czerwiec is the author of two recent chapbooks – Sweet/Crude: A Bakken Boom Cycle, and A Is For A-ke, The Chinese Monster – and of the forthcoming poetry collection Maternal Imagination, and is the editor of North Dakota Is Everywhere: An Anthology of Contemporary North Dakota Poets. She lives in Minneapolis. Visit her at heidiczerwiec.com

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Stephanie McCarley Dugger’s first poetry collection, As Far as You, is forthcoming from Sundress Publications (October 2017). Her chapbook, Sterling (Paper Nautilus, 2015), was winner of the 2014 Vella Chapbook contest. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Arts & Letters, Cider Press Review, Gulf Stream, Meridian, The Southeast Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, Taos Journal of International Poetry and Art, and other journals. She is an assistant professor at Austin Peay State University, where she teaches writing and literature, and is Assistant Poetry Editor for Zone 3 Press. Fox Frazier-Foley is the author of two prize-winning poetry collections: The Hydromantic Histories (Bright Hill Press, 2015), which was selected by Vermont Poet Laureate Chard deNiord as the recipient of the Bright Hill Press Poetry Award, and Exodus in X Minor (Sundress Publications, 2014). She edited the anthologies Political Punch: Contemporary Poems on the Politics of Identity (Sundress Publications, 2016) and Among Margins: Critical and Lyrical Writing on Aesthetics (Ricochet Editions, 2016). Her most recent collection of poems, Like Ash in the Air After Something Has Burned, was released by Hyacinth Girl Press this year. She created and manages the micro-press Agape Editions. Ruth Foley lives in Massachusetts, where she teaches English for Wheaton College. Her work appears in numerous web and print journals, including Adroit, Sou’wester, Threepenny Review, and Valparaiso Poetry Review. Her poems can also be found in several anthologies, including the Best Indie Lit New England anthology. She is the author of the chapbooks Sink and Drift, Creature Feature, and Dear Turquoise, and the forthcoming full-length collections Dead Man’s Float and Abandon. She serves as Managing Editor for Cider Press Review. H.E. Francis is author of two novels and four collections of stories, many reprinted in anthologies, notably the O.Henry, 166

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Best American, and Pushcart Prize volumes. He lives in Huntsville and Madrid and translates distinguished Argentine literature. His collections have won the Iowa Fiction Award and other competitive awards. Beth Gilstrap is the author of I Am Barbarella: Stories (2015) from Twelve Winters Press and No Man’s Wild Laura (2016) from Hyacinth Girl Press. She thinks she’s crazy lucky to work as Fiction Editor over at Little Fiction | Big Truths. Her work has been selected as Longform.org’s Fiction Pick of the Week, nominated for storySouth’s Million Writers Award, Best of the Net, and The Pushcart Prize. Her fiction and essays have appeared in Bull, WhiskeyPaper, The Minnesota Review, Literary Orphans, and Little Patuxent Review, among others. She lives in Charlotte with her husband and enough rescue pets to make life interesting. Rodney Gomez is a member of the Macondo Writers’ Workshop and the proud son of migrant farmworkers. His first full-length collection, Citizens of the Mausoleum, is forthcoming from Sundress Publications. His chapbooks include Mouth Filled with Night (Northwestern University Press), Spine (Newfound), and A Short Tablature of Loss (Seven Kitchens Press). His poetry has appeared in POETRY, Rattle, Blackbird, Pleiades, Denver Quarterly, Puerto del Sol, and other journals. His honors include the Drinking Gourd Chapbook Prize, the RHINO Editors’ Prize, the Gloria Anzaldúa Poetry Prize, and the Rane Arroyo Prize. He works at the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley.

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Josh Kalscheur is the author of Tidal, which won the 2013 Four Way Books Levis Prize and was published in Spring 2015. Recent work has appeared in, or is forthcoming from The Iowa Review, DIAGRAM, The Cincinnati Review, and Tammy, among others. He was the Halls Emerging Artist Fellow at UW-Madison for the 2015-16 academic year and was most recently a Visiting Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at SUNY-Fredonia. Les Kay is the author of At Whatever Front (Sundress Publications, 2016) as well as the chapbooks The Bureau (Sundress Publications, 2015) and Badass (Lucky Bastard Press, 2015). He is also a co-author of the chapbook Heart Radicals (ELJ Publications, 2016). His poetry has appeared widely in journals such as The Collagist, Redactions, South Dakota Review, Southern Humanities Review, Sugar House Review, Whiskey Island, and The White Review. He lives in Cincinnati with his wife, Michelle, and two small dogs. Learn more at: http:// www.leskay.com. Rachel Mennies is the author of The Glad Hand of God Points Backwards, winner of the Walt McDonald First-Book Prize in Poetry and finalist for a National Jewish Book Award. She teaches at Carnegie Mellon University and lives in Pittsburgh. Douglas Penick wrote, opera libretti (Munich Biennale,Santa Fe Opera), video scripts (Leonard Cohen, narrator), novels on the 3rd Ming Emperor (Journey of the North Star), on spiritual searchers (Dreamers and Their Shadows), and three books from the Gesar of Ling epic (Witter Bynner Foundation grant). Shorter works appeared in Agni, Chicago Quarterly, New England Quarterly, Kyoto Journal, Tricycle, etc. Wakefield Press published his and Charles Ré’s translation of Pascal Quignard’s A Terrace In Rome.

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Lee Ann Roripaugh was born in Laramie, Wyoming, in 1965. She holds an MM in music history, a BM in piano performance, and an MFA in creative writing, all from Indiana University. Her first volume of poetry, Beyond Heart Mountain (Penguin Books, 1999), was selected by Ishmael Reed for the National Poetry Series. She is also the author of Dandarians (Milkweed Editions, 2014), On the Cusp of a Dangerous Year (Southern Illinois University Press, 2009), and Year of the Snake (Southern Illinois University Press, 2004), winner of the Association of Asian American Studies Book Award in Poetry/Prose. Roripaugh’s other honors include an Academy of American Poets Prize, an AWP Intro Award, and the 1995 Randall Jarrell International Poetry Prize. In his review of On the Cusp of a Dangerous Year, Ray Gonzalez wrote, “Lee Ann Roripaugh’s poems create a true book of seeing. Her poems show us the way toward redemption as they fill these pages with a life of discovery and meaning.” In 2015, Roripaugh was appointed to the position of South Dakota poet laureate. She teaches creative writing at the University of South Dakota and is the editor of the South Dakota Review. Judi Rypma has published widely in literary journals, most recently Oracle, Green Hills Literary Lantern, Slipstream, and Whale Road Review. Her latest collection of poetry, Worshipping at Lenin’s Mausoleum, was just released by FutureCycle Press. She is an associate professor at Western Michigan University.

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Steven Sanchez is the author of Phantom Tongue (Sundress Publications, 2018), selected by Mark Doty as the winner of Marsh Hawk Press’ Rochelle Ratner Memorial Award. Additionally, he is the author of two chapbooks and his poems have appeared in Poet Lore, Nimrod, Crab Creek Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, and Tahoma Literary Review, among others. A recipient of fellowships from CantoMundo and the Lambda Literary Foundation, he is the poetry editor of Word Riot and teaches English at Fresno City College. Danielle Sellers is from Key West, FL. She has an MA from The Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University and an MFA from the University of Mississippi where she held the John Grisham Poetry Fellowship. Her poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, Subtropics, Smartish Pace, The Cimarron Review, Poet Lore, and elsewhere. Her first book, Bone Key Elegies, was published by Main Street Rag. Her second poetry collection, The Minor Territories, is forthcoming from Sundress Publications in 2018. She teaches Literature and Creative Writing at Trinity Valley School in Fort Worth, Texas. Daniel M. Shapiro is the author of The Orange Menace (locofo chaps, 2017), Heavy Metal Fairy Tales (Throwback Books, 2016), How the Potato Chip Was Invented (sunnyoutside press, 2013), and The 44th-Worst Album Ever (NAP Books, 2012). He is the senior poetry editor and reviews editor for Pittsburgh Poetry Review. Erin Elizabeth Smith is the Creative Director at the Sundress Academy for the Arts and the author of two full-length poetry collections, The Naming of Strays (Gold Wake Press 2011) and The Fear of Being Found, which was rereleased by Zoetic Press in 2016. Her poetry and nonfiction have appeared in numerous journals, including Ecotone, Mid-American, Florida Review, 32 Poems, Willow Springs, Third Coast, and Crab Orchard Review. She teaches in the English 170

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Department at the University of Tennessee and serve as the Managing Editor for Sundress Publications and The Wardrobe. Jim Warner’s poetry has appeared in various journals including The North American Review, RHINO Poetry, New South, and is the author of two collections (PaperKite Press). His latest book, actual miles, will be released in 2017 by Sundress Publications. Jim is the host of the literary podcast Citizen Lit and is a faculty member of Arcadia University’s MFA program.

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re al :

{vol. 40, no. 2} S&S 2017

Featuring a portfolio including: Jordi Alonso & Grace Bauer & Alyse Bensel & Sarah Chavez & Jenny Yang Cropp & Heidi Czerwiec & Stephanie Dugger & fox FrazieRFoley & Ruth Foley & Rodney Gomez & Les Kay & Arden Levine & Rachel Mennies & Lee Ann Roripaugh & Judi Rypma & Steven Sanchez & Danielle Sellers & Danel Shapiro & Erin Elizabeth Smith & jim Warner With work by: N.T. ArĂŠvalo & J.A. Bernstein & H.E. Francis & Josh Kalscheur & Douglas Penick & Mika Taylor & Art by: John Bent & Lu Mogosanu

Real 40 2  
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