lost piece iv final spreads

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LOST PIECEan undergraduate journal of letters


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an undergraduate journal of letters LOST PIECE : Issue IV X XS S

Copyright, Lost Piece ; All rights reserved.

No part o this journal may be used or reproduced by any means,graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, record-ing, taping or by any in ormation storage retrieval system without the

written permission o the EditorInChie except in the case o brie quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Te works includedin this journal are printed with explicit permission o their authors.

Lost Piece: An Undergraduate Journal o Letters Te University o Notre DameCenter or Undergraduate Scholarly Engagement

PRIN ED IN HE U NI ED S A ES OF AMERICA

LOST PIECEan undergraduate journal of letters

VOLUME I, ISSUE IV Getting to Know You

J

Stephen Lechner Editor in Chie

Raymond KorsonSupporting Editor

Jose KuhnConor Rogers

Editors


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Table of ContentsLost Piece: Issue IV

Something of a Mission Statement

From the Editors ...................................................................................5 Meet the WritersLost Piece ...............................................................................................6

SearchesStephen Lechner .....................................................................................8

In Search of Myself Daniel ODu y ......................................................................................12

LifelineClaire Gillen ..........................................................................................16

Man, According to Primo Levi James C Dever .......................................................................................17

And How He IsScott Posteuca .........................................................................................26

Bayview William Stewart ....................................................................................30

Interpretations and Intersubjectivity Mark ancredi .......................................................................................36People By Day Stephen Lechner .....................................................................................41

Penury Everlasting Nicholas Brandt .....................................................................................46

A Portrait of T.S. Eliot Jose Kuhn..............................................................................................48

A Girl Without A Country Maria Santos .........................................................................................51Goodbye

Javier Zubizarreta .................................................................................57

Something of a Mission Statement From the Editors

Lost Piece exists to acilitate undergraduate reading, discussion,and writing o an intellectual nature beyond course curriculum

and without distraction rom the grade point average.

Lost Piece seeks to help undergraduates to complementand even uni y what they learn in their classes with

their own personally driven intellectual pursuits.

Te goal o Lost Piece is to combat mediocrity in allthings, and particularly in all things intellectual.

Lost Piece holds that the goods proper to intellec-tual activity are ends in and o themselves and are tobe sought regardless o whatever recognitions may or

may not be extrinsically attached to such activity.


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Meet the Writers

Tese groups have contributedto the writing o the Fall 2010Edition o Lost Piece. Weencourage you, as an undergrad-uate, to contribute your writingto uture editions whether indi-

vidually or as part o any suchintellectual society. You cansend your writing and eedback to the editor at [email protected].

D

Te Program of Liberal Studies:So it turns out that PLSstudents dont only like to talk about such trivial things as ree will or the meaning o li e as approached throughthe lens o certain GreatBooks, but they also like,even need, to engage ideas

wherever they can nd them. Tats why a ew o them gottogether to watch movies every week, rst as a social eventand later more as a discussiongroup. Tey like to think they are staying true to the spirito the word seminar (whichliterally means seedbed) by holding pro ound conversa-tions on their own rom whichthey hope to bear the ruits o new ideas, serious dialogue,and lasting riendships.

Istum:(Also calledTat Ting ) Tree years ago, a group o riendsdecided to get together every

weekend to start a literary society. Its members includestudents rom the Colleges o Arts and Letters, Science, andEngineering, but strangely none rom the college o Business. Tey write, simply put, despite the obvious actthat they are only tyro writ-ers, and they criticize each

others writing as best they can. One o their goals is tobring back the essay (whichliterally means an attempt)as a orm o writing and asa rhetorical work o art. Tegroup takes its name romone o Ciceros orations.

Te Philosophy Club: Te Philosophy Club isa group o a ew dozenundergraduates who enjoy arguing, using big words,attempting to answer li esgreat questions, asking morequestions, and arguing.

: is a group o undergradu-ates who meet together todiscuss issues o importance,ranging rom theology tophilosophy to current issuesin any and all elds. It is acasually structured, socially engaging event that welcomesthe opportunity to nd both

common ground and a mul-titude o opinions on topics. And they drink tea, too.

Te Orestes Brownson Council: As a club, OBC is ocusedon better understanding theCatholic intellectual tradi-tion and its interaction withphilosophy, politics, andculture. It takes its name

rom the American Catholicpolitical thinker who isburied in the crypt o theBasilica o the Sacred Heart,Orestes Brownson. V


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Searches An Introduction

Stephen LechnerClass o 2011

Editor-in-Chie

I once heard someone de-scribe li e as an autobiographicaldramatic narrative; I have yet tohear a description I like better.Its a story, simply put, and acollection o storiesstories

rom many places, distant and varied, that come togethersometimes in patterns andsometimes in explosions, o tencolor ul, always mysterious.

Tis issue can be better under-stood i one knows the storiesthat pieced it together. Id liketo tell some o those stories now.

Te rst story concerns the journals name,Lost Piece . Idont know i youve ever suc-ceeded in assembling a puzzle,a large puzzle, a ter hourso umbling with cardboard

wedges only to nd a singlepiece missing rom the picture.

Te rustration o such a

situation is, perhaps, enoughto justi y an early end to ones

career o puzzle-piecing. ButI must con ess: it wasnt until

working on this journal thatI actually experienced this

rustration literally. We hadalready decided on the name,Lost Piece , and Ray and I werepiecing together a puzzle tosee how we liked it. o say we

were shocked to discover that

there was, in the end, one piecemissing does little to capturethe ridiculous situation in which

we ound ourselves: there we were, two editors o a new journal titledLost Piece tearingapart the room trying to ndthe lost piece to the journalscover on our rst attemptat piecing it together. Teirony was magni ed when werealized that the piece we werelooking or was, like the oor,brown and that the two o usare both colorblind. Needlessto say, we never ound it...

Another story is, perhaps,more to the point. In the all o 2007, there was a reshman at

Notre Dame who decided thathe was missing something inhis education. He had classes,

riends, a place at an excellentuniversity with excellent pro es-sors, and a great interest inlearningin short, all that heought to have wanted. But nev-ertheless he needed somethingmore, something he couldnt

seem to nd, something to pullit all together and put it intoperspective. I this all sounds

amiliar to you it is because Itook his idea o somethingmissing and made it thecornerstone or the rst issue o this journal. And what did hedecide this something was?One might call it an intellec-tual community, a community

within which he could not only go to class and learn things, butreally live an intellectual li e in

which all o itthe classes, theriends, the books, the degree

cooperated in a sensible way.It was with the intention

o starting such a community

that he and I undertook to startthe literary society that wouldeventually become one o thedriving orces behind this

journal. Istumhas met once a week or three years now and allthis while we have been sharingour thoughts, arguments, and

writing with each other asriends. Why? Because we like

to. Because we are riends. Itsan eclectic mixPhilosophy majors, premeds, Teology,English, Math, PoliticalScience, Classics, Economics,and several engineersanda small oneabout sevenregulars and another eightor so who come every now and later, usually averaginganywhere between seven andten. It seems to have workedout well, even though we neverhad a place to put our writing

when we nished it, until now.But even Istum was not quite

enough or Jerrysome o youknow him, Im sureand hedecided to leave Notre Dame


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a ter his second year. Why? Hecouldnt see the point o stayinghere. Why college? o get adegree? What use is a degree?

o land a job? What shouldcollege have to do with that?

And nobody else seemed toeven question the point, despitethe orty-six thousand dollarprice tag that comes with it

every year. In the end he took a year o to work at home, a yearthat became our years when he

joined the army last March. Was that the only reason he

le t? Who can tell or sure?But it was or no less. Hisgrades were well above average.He had, and still has, many

riends here. His is easily one o the sharpest minds Iveever come across, and he hadan ambitious and genuineinterest in studying. Heshould have had all he wantedherehe even told me so.

So why do I tell Jerrys story now? Do I want you to leavecollege, perhaps to join the

military? Ten why havent Idone so mysel ? No. I tell itnow in hopes that you mightconsider your own point tocollege, a point that you may or may not have actually considered recently, or even atall. Strangely, its airly easy toignore the question o a pointto collegeeveryone else is

here, and nobody else seemsto be wondering why. And solong as riends are near, beercheap, and a career soon to

ollow, whats to worry about? What could be missing?

But evidently something ismissing, because Jerry isnt hereright now. It isnt somethingunique to Notre Dame; rather,universities in general seemto share this absenceeventhe Ivies, which seem to oolthemselves most success ully o anyone into thinking thatthe virtue o scholarship can beinstitutionalized. More impor-tantly, it isnt something thateither the administrations or

aculties o universities are miss-ing. It is something that under-graduates themselves are miss-ing and need to provide i they are to gain a higher education.

Te notion o having a pointextends beyond ones collegecareerindeed, it extends toli e itsel and it is with thisin mind that these writers have

presented their thoughts. Letthese insights give credence tothe claim already presented ina previous issue: that humanbeings, as rational animals,cannot live without purpose.Human beings thrive onpurpose. A story, to becalled a story, requires at leastenough order to make a plot.

I should say that Jerry, as lastI heard rom him, is still servingsa ely at his post in Iraq, havingbeen commissioned there thisSeptember, and is reading theentire works o Shakespeare in

what little spare time he has.His plan, as last hes considered

it, is to nish his studies atNotre Dame upon his return

rom the Army three yearsrom now. Ultimately, he will

have earned his education by his own very di cult serviceas a private in the Army, andthe expense o his education

will burden neither his ederalgovernment, nor his university,

nor his amily. He is the only person o whom I know Ican say this. I most certainly cannot say it o mysel .V


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Nietzsche beckons me back into mysel with the promisethat there is indeed somethingmore, that I am hidden beyond

the deluge o mental activity.

With Hume, I looked withinto nd only passions, but I donot conclude that this is a ll Iam. A ter all, there must be

a subject o these perceptions,

In Search of Myself An Essay

Daniel ODu y

What am I? Science tellsme that I am Homo sapiens,constituted o atoms that ormcells shaped by billions o yearso evolution, but this does notanswer my question. Tough Imay zoom into my body withscience and see my elements, Iam no closer to understandingmy innermost sel . Troughouttime, man has zoomed in onhimsel with the intellect,questing or answers. From theinsight o the social sciencesto the wondrous perspicac-ity o literature, humans have

recorded their attempts to ndthemselves. Trough tracingthese thoughts, I marvel at theepic tapestry that illustrates thehuman experience. I am enrap-tured when touching the mindo another yet still I cannotgrasp at the truth, the answersto those uniquely human ques-

tions. How may I come to know

other minds or my own i all I see are shadows dancingon a cave wall? I ask, what islove? and I am told that it islike like a red, red rose. I ask,what is li e? and I am told thatit is but a brie candle. Teseanswers, like anything encodedin language, can only irt and

it with the truth, never truly

encapsulating it. We are limitedby language and experienceto hear mere echoes o truth.Never will we be able to truly convey in words or show or say the secret o that which most

undamentally constitutes us. Te answers to human identity may thus only be ound withintrospection, not extrospec-tion. Searching or mysel , I

will take as my guide the greatphilosophers, ollowing theirmeditations. I ask mysel , then,

where I can be said to exist. Teanswer is apparent, Cartesianin nature: I am that which asks

what I am. I look to my mind.

I read Hume and ollow hisgaze, peering into my con-sciousness. I try to make senseo what I nd but all is at sea, a

tumultuous crashing o percep-tions, thoughts and eelings thatthreaten to drown me under acascade o sensations. I try toswim through it to locate thelocus o being, but I am unableto see through the perceptionsthat all into my awarenesslike shi ting curtains o rain. I

can a ect its angle somewhat,as the wind does during astorm, but I am powerless toprevent its inevitable descent.

Breathless, I retreat to normal-ity, chastened. Is this all thereis to humans an ephemeral,elusory existence consistingo no more than eeting pas-sions? Hume concluded thus,denying the existence o sel .Is this the end o my journey?

For my part, when I enter most intimately into what I call

mysel , I always stumble on some particular perception or other,o heat or cold, light or shade, love or hatred, pain or pleasure. I never can catch mysel at any time without a perception, and never can observe anything but the perception. (Hume)

Behind your thoughts and eelings, my brother, there stands a mighty ruler, an unknown sage, whose name is sel . (Nietzsche)


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something to experience them.Is this me? I turn my gaze

rom the constellations o

perceptions around me to look down at the nameless gure,this pivot in the center o it all.

knowledge to ascend once more,zooming back out and escapingthis dark cave o ouroboricquestions. Tis is the essence o philosophy. We live in the midsto plethoric puzzles that screamat us, begging to be answered:

What are we? What is reality? Attuning to these thoughts canbe maddening, or liberating; it

is no doubt much sa er to plugour ears! Te greatest mindso humanity nevertheless tiedthemselves to the mast o reality and turned to ace thatsirens call. Did any nd theirPenelope? I do not know. Tey have le t me clues to their path,a path that I may ollow out, butultimately this odyssey must beundertaken alone. Followingphilosophy, I have journeyedto my innermost sel , zoomingin to nd nothing. Followingphilosophy, I may journey back to reality, and nd meaning.V

Spurred on by Wittgenstein, who talks o a sel beyond that which I had contemplated,I reach the nal intellectualmagni cation o the sel , at lastapproaching the nucleus o being.I look down into the awareness

within to see... nothing. Te

observer in the middle is a void,an entity entirely devoid o character. Tere is no wondrousanswer, no Grail at the end o thisquest, just... emptiness. I am theempty vessel into which experi-ence is poured, nothing more.

Te philosophical I is not the human being, nor the humanbody, nor the human soul with which psychology deals. Te philosophical sel is the metaphysical subject, the bound-ary nowhere in this world. (Wittgenstein)

Te mental and the material are really here, but there is no person tobe ound. For it is void and ashioned like a doll. (Visuddhimagga)

I have not ound my sel , only diaphanous awareness. All o the things that I had once calledme, my thoughts, my eelings,are apparently no more than poorplayers upon a stage, moving and

interacting in the Cartesian the-ater by a script that I do not write.

Like Descartes, I have worked my way down into the bottom o adoubt parabola, questioning every level o my existence down to theabsolute minimum point - some-thing is aware. Tis is all I know,

all I can know or sure, unlessI can construct an edi ce o


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Lifeline A Poem

Man According to Primo Levi A Literary Research Paper

Claire GillenClass o 2011

Philosophy Club

James C DeverClass o 2011

Orestes Brownson Council

From the outset it is impor-tant to note that Primo Levi, inis work Se questo `e un uomo, isboth participant in and narratoro various encounters with men,all o which contribute to hisconversation with the reader

regarding mans nature. For thesake o ocus and clarity, I willretain this division betweenLevi as author and Levi asparticipant in one o theseencounters, addressing rst how he as author is expressing hisconception o mans nature andsecond how he as participantcame to his understanding. Teparticularity o his experienceas participant will serve asevidence or the various themesthe work examines as a whole.I will constrain my discussionto one particular encounter

ound in Il canto di Ulisse . Te

orm o Levis text, written notin order o logical succession,

but in order o urgency,1 dealsalmost exclusively in particu-lars. In compiling numerousexperiences o li e in theLager ,Levi constructs a rich andcomplex picture o humanity.His writing demands that thereader engage general questionsregarding the human conditionon the level o particular. Levi

invites the reader to deepenhis or her re ection on thequestions he is raising, ratherthan provide de nitive answerso his own. In this essay I haveattempted to synthesize Levistreatment o particulars in a

ashion that does not neglect thecomplexity o his work. Having

re ected on Levis text, I willargue that or Levi, a man is abeing driven by the seemingly unquenchable desire to discernmeaning in experience, re ectupon this lived experience inmemory, and then convey thecontents o those re ections toothers by means o language.

Tough blessed beyond measure, still I grumble.Preoccupied with charting an assured way,Trough daily duty, I umble, stumble,

rying to stay upright, measure each day. Just as my maps nearly complete, I all

From my high peak into raging ocean.Water drives relentlessly, sapping all My strength in its perpetual motion. At length, the mighty orce recedes and hurls A wounded, gasping girl upon the shore. Alone, con used, within hersel she curls Doubts her power to recover, ace more.

But, when placing trust in my greatest riend,

My yoke is easy; anxieties end.V


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Te impact o this moment

is tremendous or Levi whoseems to have received a kindo divine revelation about hissituation in the Lager as wellas what it means to be a man.On Ulysses words, men ollow a ter knowledge and excellence,pursuing the great questions o mans existence in an attemptto discern meaning. On all o Levis descriptions, theLager isessentially a place o dehuman-ization, breaking down what itmeans to be a man in the mindso the prisoners. Te revelation

rom Dantes Ulysses that menare made to seek a ter knowl-edge and excellence and the way

that he and Jean are engaging

in conversation seems to ll hissoul with an a rmation o hisown humanity. Te essentialdi erence between Levis searchand that o Dantes Ulyssesis the role community playsin deepening ones ability topursue knowledge and excel-lence. Ulysses abandoned the

very members o his community that Levi emphasizes must beremembered. In engaging inthe search or meaning withanother Levi a rms the need

or community and riendship.4

Mans Search or Meaning

In Il canto di Ulisse Levias both author and participantgrapples with questions sur-rounding mans desire tosearch or meaning. For Levi,man hungers or meaning,and attempts to discern thecontent o lived experience

according to principles o reason. Levis re ection onDantes canto di Ulisse romthe Commedia establishesan implicit parallel between

Levis search or meaning inthe Lager and Ulysses search

or meaning in In erno. Levibegins his meditation abruptly,the canto o Ulysses. Itis motivated initially by thedesire to teach Jean Italian, butis soon trans ormed into an

opportunity to discover mean-ing in the in erno o theLager .Levi rst draws the parallelbetween Dantes text and thecurrent situation o the two men

Ulysses. Te open sea is in-scrutable, but still calls Ulysses

to search. Levi quotes DantesUlysses again and comments

So on the open sea I set orth. O this I am certain, I am sure, I can explain it to Pikolo, I can point out why I set orth is not je me mis, it is much stronger and more audacious, it is a chainwhich has been broken, it is throwing onesel on the other side o a barrier, we know the impulse well. Te open sea: Pikolohas traveled by sea and knows what it meansthere is nothing but the smell o the sea; sweet things, erociously ar away.2

His interpretation o thepassage points towards thesimilarity o their situation in

the Lager to that o Ulysses,throwing himsel on the other

side o a barrier, crossing into theunknown, driven by the humanimpulse or meaning. Jean knows

what the open sea means andthus its particular relevance or

Tink o your breed; or brutish ignorance / Your mettle was not made; you were made men, / o ollow a ter knowledge and excellence. As i I also was hearing it or the frst time: like the blast o a trumpet, like the voice o God.For a moment I orgot who I was and where I am.3


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transcend the Lager , allowinghim or a time to orget who heis and where he is. Levis lapsesin memory point to the powero memory to transcend imme-diate circumstances. He writes,I would give todays soup toknow how to connect the likeon any day to the last l ines.7 In asserting his willingness to

surrender this ration, Levi is es-sentially claiming that he wouldhave given his li e to rememberthe way the nal lines o thecanto are connected. For Levi, it

would be better to contemplatethe imagery o Dantes text

with Jean in the manner o men. Te capacity to remember

and to relate ones memories toanother is something uniquely human. Te power o memory is urther attested to as Levisrendering o the canto sparksother memories, notably o hishome in urin, do not let methink o my mountains whichused to show up against the

dusk o evening as I returnedby train rom Milan to urin!8

Te pain o memory is lasting, yet revivi ying, echoing Levissentiments earlier in the book,For a ew hours we can beunhappy in the manner o reemen.9 Tere is somethinguniquely human about the painone can su er rom a memory

that while transporting onerom his or her environmentmakes them acutely aware thatit will only be temporary.

Language and Community

Ones ability to search ormeaning and re ect on livedexperience in memory areultimately rustrated withoutthe capacity to express onesel in meaning ul language. As

with the power to discernmeaning, and re ect onmemory, the use o languageis something that is essen-tially human. Furthermore, in

Memory and Connectionto the Past

Se questo `e un uomois essen-tially a collection o memories.Elsewhere in his work Levidescribed himsel as a normalman with a good memory.5 Levi was an author who was

very concerned with human

memory and memorys role inthe communication o truthabout the human condition.In this section I will addressLevis emphasis on the power o memory to create connections

with the past. Tis is signi cantboth on the level o being asan essentially human capacity associated with meaning, andon the level o the ability o memory to recall instanceso lived human experience,especially in moments whenones humanity is in doubt.

Within the narrative,Levi begins his journey with

Jean speaking about various

memories that shed importantlight on Levis subsequentexegesis o Dantes text. Levi

writes, We spoke o our hous-es, o Strasbourg and urin, o the books we had read, o what

we had studied, o our mothers:how all mothers resemble eachother!6 In this brie exchangebetween the two men, their

memories enable them toestablish a link with their pastlives. Memory, in creatingthat link between the past andpresent, allows Levi and Jeanto re ect on a time when theirhumanity was not somehow in question, a time when they knew they were in act men.

Levi relates as much o thecanto as he is able to remember.He struggles to translate andcomment on the ragments heis able to recall, while stitchingtogether what he has produced.Here memory per orms thesame act o linking Levi in theLager to words and ideas that


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Jean a rms Levis burningdesire to speak by providinghim with a willing ear to listen.Beyond mere courtesy, however,

Jean has been a ected by Levisstory. In sharing his transla-tion and commentary, Levi isable to deepen Jeans ability to

re ect with him on the greatquestions o meaning they acein the Lager . Tis experienceo communication sharedbetween the two men allow both to recognize the humanity o themselves in the other. ForLevi and Jean, who dare to

order or communication to bemeaning ul it must be directedtowards a listener, establishing acommunity. In this nal sec-tion I will show how language

acilitates the creation o community between Levi andhis readers as well as betweenLevi and Jean in theLager .

Te epitaph rom Coleridges

Rime o the Ancient Marineris ound at the beginning o his work, I sommersi e i salvati ,Since then at an uncertainhour, / that agony returns, /

And till my ghastly tale is told/ Tis heart within me burns. 10 Levi writes o the burningdesire to share the ghastly tale

in the Pre ace toSe questo `e un uomo, Te need to tell ourstory to the rest, to make therest participate in it, had takenon or us be ore our liberationand a ter, the character o animmediate and violent impulse,to the point o competing

with our elementary needs.11 Both o these statements echo

similar sentiments o a violentimpulse to share ones story with others as well as notionso community and otherness.Levi is deeply concerned withones ability to communicatemeaning to others. In I som-mersi e i salvati , he writes:

Tus, to speak is something thatis essentially human. It is themanner in which one relates tothe rest. Te exercise o lan-guage is carried out in commu-nion with other human beings.

Te main action o Leviscommentary in Il canto di Ulisse is an attempt to establish a

orm o community with Jean

by teaching Jean his nativelanguage. Jean is depicted as the

ideal listener throughout Levisrantic lesson. Levi mentions

his great attention and how good Pikolo is.13 Jean partici-pates verbally only once, but ora majority o the time ollowsLevis re ections intently,deepening his own re ectionson their condition in the Lager as they are implicitly compared

to those o Ulysses. Levi writes,

Except or cases o pathological incapacity, one can and must com-municate o say that it is impossible to communicate is alse; one always can. o re use to communicate is a ailing; we are biologically and socially predisposed to communication, and in particular to its highly evolved and noble orm which is language. All members o the human species speak, no non-human species knows how to speak.12

he is aware that it is doing me good. Or perhaps it is something more: perhaps, despite the wan translation and the pedestrian,rushed commentary he has received the message; he has elt that ithas to do with him, that is has to do with all men who toil, and with us in particular; and that is has to do with us two, who dare toreason o these things with the poles or the soup on our shoulder14


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reason about these things in theLager , shared communication isanother way in which humanity may be retained. Tis is the

act o mans li e on earth thatDantes Ulysses neglected.In separating himsel romhuman community in orderto search a ter knowledge andexcellence he rebelled against

mans natural impetus towardsruit ul social interaction andthe virtue o riendship.

Tus ar, I have attempted toshow an understanding o manas rational, linguistic, and socialin Levi s relation o his encoun-ter with Jean in Il canto di Ulisse ,but to reduce Levis relation o

his encounters inSe questo è unuomoto a dogmatic de nitiono man, however, would beo ensive to the complexity o Levis text. As we have seenLevis work is characterized by its emphasis on the particularity o human experience. Levichooses to relate his experiencesas experiences o individuals. As

author, Levi invites the readerto become participant in thoseexperiences and engage the textas a living strand o conversa-tion on what it means to behuman. His reconstructions o his human encounters providethe basis or the search ormeaning, investing his readers

with a sense o purpose as they

ollow his thought in the text.Levis memory provides the areain which the search or meaningis carried out. He invites thereader into his most intimatethoughts with all the urgency o the original moment. Both theinvitation and sense o urgency are expressed through Levis use

o language. Language createsthe relationship between thespeaker and the listener in amanner that demands o thelistener a willingness to re ect

with Levi on the nature o man. In the same way Levisencounters are necessarily singular, so too is the responseto Levi derived rom his

readers. In Il canto di Ulisse Levio ers his own commentary and interpretation o Dantespoetic text with a particularity o circumstance that providesnew meaning to the text itsel .By allowing the reader to

ollow his journey with Jeanthrough Dantes text. Levi hasprovided us a model to ollow in

interpreting his own. Probingthe depths o meaning that arepresent, taking adequate time tore ect what we have managedto grasp, and nally carryingon the conversation once more,deepening our understandingeach time we return.Se questoè un uomodoes not o er us a

nalized de nition o what itmeans to be a man, but ratherinvites the reader along thepath o Levis own search ormeaning through his memory and expressed in his languageindicating that these threecomponents o mans nature

were essential to his under-standing o what man is.V

Cited:1 Se questo è un uomo, p. 15-162 Ibid , p. 1193 Ibid , c .4 In erno XXVI, 94-99, Notenderness or son, no duty owed/ o aging atherhood, no lovethat should / have brought my wi e Penelope delight / Couldovercome in me my long desire /burning to understand how this world works / and know o human vices, worth and valor; note 95 Levi, Stories and Essays , quotedin Wool , From I this is a MantoTe Drowned and the Saved , p. 356 Se questo è un uomo, p. 1177 Ibid , p. 1208 Ibid 9 Ibid , p. 82, A Good Day10 Coleridge, Te Rime o the Ancient Mariner, 582-58511 Se questo è un uomo, p. 1512 I sommersi e i salvati , p. 8913 Se questo è un uomo, p. 118, 11914 Ibid , p. 119-120


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And How He Is A Poem

Scott Posteuca

Class o 2011Philosophy Club

It is so easy just to throw up your arms and to pretend it is all pretend.Te nauseating drone o the alarm clocktiresome, bothersome, a nuisance Get up, it says, Get up and go... go... go...go... go... tiresome, monotone, and clueless ails under quick fngers and we sink

intodreams...

dreams do not complicate (dont say theres nothing to do in the doldrums...)dreams are easy.

But that is just the thing (Aye, theres the rub):Perhaps it is too easy, this throwing up, this pretending,too easy to be the proper response to it all (li e, work, love, breathing), all that being as man entails.

It seems to me that by being man, I demand certainthings rom the Reality about me : or one that it be more more than just pretend more than just a dream: or another that it be worthwhile,worth a great deal (worthy o a sunset, perhaps, on a warm summer day at the edge

o the sea;worthy o a deep lookinto its vast,

shimmering eternity;worthy o a good whi o the salt

spray o unknown Adventure)


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:and or another, perhaps most importantly,that it be real, that it be relevant, that it exist, that it not be a lie!

Man, or him to exist as man,requires demands,depends upon

ruth;

and how he is restsless upontil he be riends it.V

w


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Bayview A Story

William StewartClass o 2012

Istum

Te clocks all look outtoward the shore, each tick and each tock pointed to theshore. It is a city o hands,asymmetrical pairs, one little,one big. Soaring above thestreets and smokestacks, the

time-piece towers stand overthe actories and warehouses,solitary sentinels o the surgeand setting o the day. Tesweeps obscure the aces asthe hands wave in and out thehighways, the railways, theport lanes. Even the summitso the churches inhabit abreed o these mechanicalstar-gazers, a metronome

or the worshipers and theirGod. My ootsteps along theside walks are matched by thetolls o the hour: inhale, hightide, tick all mirrored withthe tock, low tide, exhale.

Madeline and I ound our-selves in a land o rummage

sales and violin repair shopsthat day. For her, it was aslow stumble through a rag-mented memory o disinterestand the impatience o aneight-year-old: underexposednegatives that would neverquite ully develop. For me, it

was a chance to retrace an all-too-hurried, rantic and lost

a ternoon when the blacknesso the sky began to ll thecab o the pickup as the radioblurted warnings o impend-ing weather. We decided to

walk the streets we had only the aintest remembrance o .

Te sign just said books, vertically, three eet tall,

beginning just above thecrown o my head. It may have been lit at some point,but the hours had corrodedits wires and cracked its glass.On the window glass wasposted Closed but also Open

June 19-20. Craning my neck, I opened the door.

Close the door! came

the reply. Close the door!We skirted hurriedly

through the doorway as the voice emerged rom beneath aprecariously balanced teepee o dust jackets and rst editions.

Its air conditioned. Naturally air conditioned,see, the teepee explained.

Te chie who emerged was

ancient, with three days o acid- ree paper stubble embel-lishing his chin. His pantshung high, suspended by elastic,the brass clasps worn with age.Glasses, thick with text, shadedhis brilliant, sunken eyes, thearms running rom the heavy lenses to his tired ears across the

valleys o his cheeks and temple.I quickly stepped to the

side, out o the way, leavingMadeline to greet him.

Te place is open, heanswered absently when queriedi we could look. Im only here

or a ew minutes. Probably about teen. I just have to

nish this letter. But you are

welcome to look around.Hoping to stumble across

some priceless treasure bound with glue and string, I turneddown the miniature isle,drawn by the shelves uponshelves o orgotten best-sellersand abandoned novelty.

But he continued,trapping Madeline.

Nicer in here than it is outthere, eh? Cooler down here. Tats why I say naturally airconditioned. Just a ew win-dows and plate glass. Keeps itcooler in the summer. I just am

writing this letter. I dont really own the place, just Im runningit or the day. But thats why

I didnt want you to have thedoor open or too long. It letsall o the cooler air escape.Like this, see, there is no extrabill. People dont think o that,though. But it helps you nothave to pay. So thats why I putthere, on the sign, naturallyair conditioned. See. Becausethere is no real air conditioner.


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But its conditioned air. Its justbeen conditioned by the build-ing. As long as it is di erentthat the air outside, its con-ditioned. So this air is colderthan the air outside but itscolder because o the building,so its naturally air conditioned.

Anyway, Im just nishing writing this letter then I need

to go, but you can sure look around here while I am here.He shufed back into

his cavern o binding andCubs-Indians on the radio.Madeline laughed at me withher spread eyes as I sniggeredinto a volume I had absent-mindedly pulled o o a shel .

Te shelves appeared towers,stacking up to the low ceilinginstantly, crammed with every

variety o book, every variety o time, every variety o subject,and in no particular organiza-tion. I le t her by the sectionson Lincoln and Bestsellers,loosely designated, tip-toedpast our book and baseball

crier, and gracelessly scrambledover box and bag into the arback corner o the store. Teentire shop could not have beenmore than 200 square eet.

I recognized even less pat-tern on these shelves, withsigned copies sharing space

with pulp ction and nudists.How am I going to nish

this letter? It is a book, hemuttered to himsel , droningo into indecipherability butcertainly remaining in therealm o audibility. Te players

were tied in the 11th inning.He just wanted the company.

Ralph Nader could havebeen president! He snapped

out o his contemplations when Madeline asked tomake a purchase, but notbe ore dragging the rontend o his derailed train o thought through his teeth.

O, these are old ones,he commented. You everknow about, asking her aboutsome long- orgotten great.

What?! You never heard o him?! I cant believe that. Oneo the smartest men to ever act.He played in, and then he wasin. Maybe you say it is because

you are young. But you know who Charlie Chaplin is. I Iask you who Charlie Chaplinis, you would know who he is,

wouldnt you? Tat just doesnt

make sense because you dontknow about one guy who waslater than one, but i I ask youabout Chaplin, you would know him, but not the younger one.

But what about RalphNader? resurrecting his old in-ternal debate. You know abouthim. He almost couldve won

the last election. Te one be orelast. He wouldve had enough,but, they always do that kindo thing. You know that i thepeople who voted couldve votedinstead o the electors, because

you mean to tell me that theelectors vote the very same orall one guy as just the people

voted or, but when they all go

to one side, instead o how they used to decide or every person,each one to his own vote, youknow? But, instead, he didntget the votes, so they couldntelect him, but i they had justlet the votes all as they were,he couldve taken enough away himsel . He couldve beenpresident. A run o , at least.

I laughed, eeling badthat I had stranded heragain with his rambles.

Alright, lets see what wecan do here. I probably amgoing to leave in about veminutes. I want to get tochurch a little early today. SoI will probably leave in a ew

minutes. But I think it willbe, lets see. wo books, hmm,

yea, two books, two dollars. Tank you. I guess now I canclose up and head out. Heshut o the radio mid-pitch.

I clamored out rom behindthe avalanche o books aboveme and handed him my choice.

Heh, we were about to


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close up. What do you havethere? Ah, a Merton. Disputed Questions ? I have never, I dontremember this one. Let me see.I have more Merton here in theo ce. But I dont know aboutthis one. He gestured to a wallo the teepee, and I care ully inched out a well-read copy o Te Seven Storey Mountain.

He thumbed rantically through an appraisal book,considerably agged andunderlined and circled. Callingout our digit numbers o pricesand explaining that he usually charges some incomprehensibleamount or his books, depend-ing on ten percents, the phases

o the moon, and the ChineseNew Year, he tried to determinethe going rate or my choice.His thought process was spo-radic, most o it leaking throughhis mouth. But it was toomuch, even or him. He endedup reluctantly asking me or $10

or both. I was happy to pay.When I asked him when

he would be open again,he shook his head.

oday is the only day. Ten it will be closed untilSeptember. But its not mineanymore, see. I sold it to anoth-er guy. I have to go in or treat-ment. Surgery or my heart. Sotheres not really time or meto nish setting the shop up.

But I think he will nish thatback room that you were in,gesturing to the natural disasterthat I had just escaped rom.

As we turned toleave, I stopped.

Ayn Rand, you say? AinRand? Ain. Yea, I think Ihave some right here. Right

here. Somewhere on thisshel . I think so. I just putsome up there. It might beside ways. Hmm. You justhave to look. He trailed o .

Dont worry about it. Teresnot enough time. Besides, youneed to get going. Church?

Te door closed emphatically behind us. We reached the top

o the street, turned at the inter-section, and I cast a glance back over my shoulder to the crack inthe masonry rom which we had

just exited. Open one day the whole summer. Hal an hourlater and the bookseller wouldhave ailed to even exist or us.

Te serendipity o thea ternoon, stepping into the last

15 minutes o a mans career,to listen to him calmly nisha letter to his brother, it waslike catching an extra inningo game whose turbulent at-bats were not betrayed by theplacidity o the identical scores.Inside the naturally air con-ditioned basement, where the

only windows looked straightup to the sky, time had pausedto let us into a story that wouldend as soon as we reemergedinto our city o clocks. Had I

walked back down the street tothe sign that had not glowedbooks in twenty years, Ihave no doubt that I wouldhave ound the shop to already

have been swallowed up by the store ronts abutting it,swallowed up by the city thattook no notice o it, swallowedup by the clocks that soared so

ar above its basement stacks.Te sidewalk carried

our eet around the block:step, step, high tide, low tide, tick, tock. V


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Interpretations and Intersubjectivity An Essay

Mark ancrediClass o 2011

Istum

Suppose there is a manliving on a deserted island

who has never known anotherperson, but has instead raisedhimsel entirely and learnedindependently all those thingsthat he needs to know about his

behaviors. His behaviors mightbe peculiar rom our point o

view. Perhaps he scratches hisears with his oot or snorts

when happy or talks to himsel by slapping his ace and claspinghis hands around his arms orper orms any number o otherodd rituals. Suppose also thatthere is a man living in our ownsociety who exhibits all o thesesame behaviors. I we re ect onthese two persons, is it not pos-sible or us to say that the rstis sane while the second insane?

And would we not say thisbecause o the contexts in whichtheir behaviors developed?

What is understandable in light

o a mans being alone on anisland might be incomprehen-sible or a man living in New

York City. But do we not alsorecognize in the man rom theisland an altogether di erentunderstanding o what we callhappiness that owes itsel tothat emotions being cultivatedin a di erent context? We might

think that the man rom theisland understands happinessin the same way we dothathe understands at base the sameemotionand that he is simply acting it out in a di erent way.But what reason do we have tothink this? Why do we eel thathappiness is pure and simple

and that emotions are uni ormand una ected by the practicesthat embody them? Is it notpossible that the island-manshappiness and our happinessare similar but not the same,in the same way that an Oak and a Maple are recognizably di erent and yet both trees?

And now I ask, why should

the man rom the island haveany behaviors at all? I they are outward demonstrationso something intrinsic to him,

who are they demonstrations or ? Tat is, why should he havebehaviors rather than mere actso instinct? I I rub my eye tosignal that I am tired, whatdistinguishes that behavior rom

my rubbing my eye becausethere is an eyelash in it? How is it that another person caninterpret my behavior? Whatdoes that other person need toknow? I my intent is what is atissue, there must be somethingthat supplies others withknowledge o my intent. For i

my riend asks (or suggests) thatI am tired and I insist that I amnot, he may still argue with methat I am, and argue urtherthat that is the reason that Irubbed my eye. Tis can only be because he has interpretedmy action in context. Tis, I amgoing to suggest, tells us not justabout actions and behaviors, but

also about emotions. Behaviorsgive expression to emotions,but they also do somethingmore: they provide identity andsubstance to emotions; they help to de ne emotions ratherthan merely embody them.

* * *Emotions are contextual; the

ability to identi y a particular

emotion as happiness or joyis more than simply puttinga name on it. Naming is only one part o identi ying, andthe name happiness is only alabel, just as Mark ancrediis merely a label or me.

Happiness stands in placeo all those eatures that are

held together in the emotion.But those eatures or whichhappiness serves as shorthandare not qualities o only theemotion; they are also quali-ties o its use. Tus emotionsare not basic entities that justneed to be named. Identi yingan emotion means noting its

eaturesalong withsomething


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about the appropriate situationsthat evoke those eatures.Notice that this does not meanthat I must identi y all thosesituations, but it does mean thatsituations provide a componento the emotions identity; inexperiencing situations, Ilearn the emotions identity.

Happiness is not something

internal that merely responds toa given circumstance. I it was, we could call something happi-ness by describing just its ea-tures without noting anythingabout the context in which itis experienced. But this is notpossible, or what would we say?Even i the subjective eeling

o happiness does not change with circumstance, the identity o that eeling does. Here I amnot simply saying that the samebasic emotion can be givena di erent name dependingon the context. I am insteadsuggesting that the identity o an emotion is contextual; the

context does not serve simply to provide a name, but it servesto provide an identity. Context

eeds back onto the emotion o interest and makes us under-stand it and understand how toact on it. Even i excitementand ear subjectively eel thesame, they are not separatedonly by context; they are phe-

nomenologically distinct.An emotion is not an entity that we know rom experienceor that we can isolate anddescribe the eatures o .Nothing can be said about anemotion except that it is anemotion (and perhaps that it ispleasant or unpleasant) unless

context is taken into account.* * *

Consider how one learns toact on a very basic emotionsadness, or example. Whilecrying may be universally consistent, it is largely instinc-tive as a behavior; mourning isneither o these things. I I am

to mourn, I must rst learn torecognize those situations in

which mourning is appropriate.I then learn the appropriatebehaviors to exhibit, wordsto speak (Im sorry or yourloss, My prayers are with

you, etc.) and activities to doin such situations, and later Ibegin to repeat them. Finally,

I make them my own. Only at this point can I be said tounderstand the sadness thatcalls or mourning, or I now understand how to express sad-ness to other people. Only thencan I go through a card aisle ina grocery store and understand

why di erent cards are grouped

in di erent sections. But moreimportantly, I learn somethingabout emotions and the actionsthey might elicitat the same time ; the actions provide scopeand detail to my emotions, andas I begin to clari y my emo-tions, I also begin to understandhow I might put them to use.I I were later to understand

some other way o expressingsadness, I would then havelearned more about sadness.

Te movement is dialectical,and without such a movementmy emotions remain just emo-tions; they are not sadnessor happiness or anxiety.

Tat I can observe happinessin a very young in ant says

relatively little about the in antand comparatively more aboutsocialization. Tat I can, in

act, interpret happiness rom asmile says much about me. Tatan in ant can smile is perhapsre exive; that that smile can bea response to the in ants eelingo what I may call happiness is

more signi cant; but that I cancall that eeling happiness,that I can interpret the move-ment o an in ants lips as asmile, that I can read the childas conveying a recognizableemotion to me when I cannot o course know rst-hand what thechild is eeling suggests somelevel o intersubjectivity. It is


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not that I am projecting ontothe child, i this is understoodto mean that I am ascribingbehavior to the child that thechild does not intend, or Ican never know what anyoneintends unless I interpret theirbehavior in the same way thatI interpret the smile o anin ant. What this suggests isthat emotions are neither basicnor distinct entities. Tey arealso not rmly ingrained, andparticular emotions need notbe universally elt. Rather,emotions are something o acapacity, something awaitingdevelopment and clari cationby interpersonal relationships.

* * *We spend much o our livesocused on emotionson

satis ying them, on recti yingthem, on assuaging them, onpursuing courses o action that

will produce the most o certainkinds o thembut we o tendo not give thought to what

in orms them nor, indeed, to what orms them, except when

it is a convenient reason or usto discount objections to ourown thoughts. So happinessis generally thought good toproduce, but rarely thoughtgood to orm and even lesslikely to be thought o as some-thing that needs to be educatedor learned. (What would thateven mean to most o us?) Andgut reactionswhat we just

eelare deemed reliable andshould be listened to; unless,o course, that gut reaction isthat o a riend with whom wedisagree. But in this case, whatare we le t with? Weighing onepersons gut reaction againstanothers? My sorrow to my

neighbors pride? As long asemotions are common currency or talking about right and

wrong behavior, we will neveractually talk about right and

wrong behavior. Nor will we ac-tually ta lk about emotions, sinceto talk about them would be

undamentally to talk about the

behavior that molds them.V

People By Day A Tought Experiment

Stephen LechnerClass o 2011

Istum

Imagine that a new drugbecomes ashionable and highly accessible. It makes a person

eel really good, it makes themorget their problems or a

little while, it cures simpledepression temporarily but

thoroughly, gives them a senseo companionship with others

who take the drug, provides acertain boost or high that canmake even the most stress ulsituations become a Sunday picnic, and has a bearable healthrecoilde nitely not enoughto cause serious injury, and only enough to cause a slight dis-com ort that is much less thanthe typical stresses o daily li e.

Question: Would you takethe drug? I so, how o ten? Onspecial occasions? In toughtimes? On holidays? On

weekends? A ter a hard days work? A ter work? During work? When you wake up in

the morning? Constant IV?

* * *Now say that while a personis under the in uence o thisdrug, they retain an appearancemuch like that o any otherrational human being, but thatat some point they begin toact in an irrational manner.

Tey begin to do things that

they would ordinarily not do, whether or not those things arethings that they would want todo under normal circumstances.

Tey moan and groan a little,they nd suddenly that they can dance and sing whenpreviously they could not, andthey suddenly begin making

love to any other human beingo the opposite sex (or o thesame) that they nd the slight-est attraction to. Tey do allsorts o ridiculous yelling andscreaming and singing andstumbling and jumping andcrawling and spitting and bitingand howling and even some o the unspeakable, but they do so


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mostly amongst themselves andinstances o bad things like ac-cidents, violence, injury, assault,death, rape, etc are almostalways amongst themselvesand even then have the reputa-tion o occurring so seldomly that one need not worry thatthey happen to onesel .

Same questions as be ore.

* * *Now say that while a personis under the in uence o thisdrug, they retain the appearancemuch like that o any otherrational human being, but thatat some point they begin to actin a more seriously irrationalmanner. Tey gain unexplain-

able strength and a certainhunger or esh and blood along

with an inability to distinguishbetween other animals andones own kind, althoughthey strangely do not have anappetite or anyone who is alsounder the in uence o this drug.

Tey tend to roam universities(it is popular especially amongst

young people) at night in ockslooking or sources o esh andblood and have been witnessedto be capable o tearing animalsapart as a means o satis yingthis hunger, but they rarely everkill people, since people quickly learned to avoid them (they can-not move about very quickly, orthey become slow and clumsy)

and to lock their doors at night(they do not hunt people intheir rooms, but there havebeen instances when they havemistaken other rooms or theirown and things have ended upbadly). Lets say that or somereason the proper authority iseither uninterested or incapable

o stopping people rom takingthis drug and that the drugis su ciently available thatanyone who wants it can get it

with little e ort, and they do.Question: Assuming that

you would not take the drug(although you might, givenits positive e ects), do you getangry at these people?

Note that the e ects o thisdrug wear o within eight hoursor so (or whatever is a goodnights rest) leaving the druggy as something like a supposedly normal person, so several o these people who walk aroundas zombies at night are the samepeople who you go to class within the dayyes, even the same

people who work hard duringthe day and get As (As!) intheir classes and go on to gethigh paying jobs. Teir nightly activities might a ect their daily activities, but not enough that itbe noticeable to the pro essors,rectors, parents, etc or at leastnot enough or them to care or

do anything about it. It is so-cially accepted that these peopledo what they do at night and itis socially abnormal or peopleto complain about this or tothink it strange or stupid, etcQuestion: Do you complainin any way? Do you pretendnot to think it strange?

* * *

Say that one Saturday night you walk in the hall o yourdorm past a young man, a class-mate o yours named Bob, whois under the in uence o thisdrug and whose appetite nds

you likeable to a hal -poundburger. He begins stumblinga ter you and wailing, and youshake your head in pity or him

as you usually do to peoplein such situations (especially Bob), and you make or theexit door behind you. o yourdistress, the door is inoperable.

You do not know whether itbe jammed, locked, blocked

rom the other side by anotherdrugged person, but neither do

you have time to nd out be oreBob walks up to you and sub-sequently devours you. You donot particularly like Bob, and

or the time being you cannotthink o another drugged uphuman being by whom you

would more despise being devoured. You turn to meet him,

nd the hall su ciently narrow


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that you cannot circumvent him without some probable contact,and discover that he is about

ve hobbles away. You coolly walk up to him, take your bottleo Guinness that you have beendrinking and, as he li ts hishungry, shaky arms towards

you, you bash the shapely glass bottle over his orehead

(he is a little taller than you)sending beer and glass yingacross the hall in a glitteringgolden spray. Bob stumblesto the ground and with littlehesitation you walk past himto your room to go to bed.

You lie awake or a while thatnight because o a complex

combination o eelings: youare shocked because you havenearly been devoured, youare angry at Bob or nearly devouring you, you are mourn-

ul that you had to waste ahal -bottle o Guinness inorder to save yoursel , and

you are very proud at havingsuccess ully broken a glass

bottle o beer over someoneshead just as one sees in themovies. It shattered beauti ully.

Question: Do you hate Bob?Question: Do you nd it oddthat you do not nd it odd thatthis sort o thing happened?

* * *wo days later, you have to

give a presentation in class. At

the question-answer part o thepresentation, the rst person toraise a hand to ask a questionis none other than a sane andsober Bob, a per ectly normalBob except that he has a black and blue bruise on his orehead,the appearance o which hecannot seem to remember.

Question: Do you have areaction to his question? Do

you listen to his question? Do you answer his question? I you do answer his question, is your answer non-violent? Can you give any explanation as to why you might eel the suddenurge to repeat what you didto him two nights ago, except

perhaps with a chair this timeinstead o a bottle? I in act

you do repeat said action, do you realize be orehand that you will have to convince thepro essor o the soundnesso this explanation upon thecompletion o said act lest you

nd yoursel in the hands o some unin ormed and punish-

ing authority? I in act you dorepeat said action, how do yousuppose Bob might react? V


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Penury Everlasting A Poem

A ighty air or afuence,Mocks the tyrant poverty,Basking in the garden o earthly delights,It rests on the golden ashes,O its predestined ore athers.

Many will go, many will go,

And I will stay, or this I know,Tat just as the sun rises in May,So also my golden earthly bouquet.

It is the constant gardener, Te still point in Eliots turning world,Because McMansions have McOwners,McMarkets have McBrokers.

Many will go, many will go, And I will stay, or this I know,Tat just as the market paves its way,So also my golden earthly bouquet.

Was it not Matthew who dared proclaim,Te poor you will always have with you?

Te poor reap harvests o harvests not theirs,Devouring the sweat o laborious lament.

Nick BrandtClass o 2012

Many will go, many will go, And I will stay, or this I know,Tat just as the armer grows his pay,So also my golden earthly bouquet.

And I am not their savior,I am the captain o Her Majestys Jewel,

Te ship o the line, Te treasure trove o prosperity, Te per ect target,For vicious piracy. Many will go, many will go, And I will stay, or this I know,Tat just as the sea holds its sway

So also my golden earthly bouquet.

And even when I die, this much I say,Much like your poetry, so must gold stay,

And shine in brilliance upon my grave,Bathing me in sunlight, as a light upon a wave.V


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A Portrait of T. S. Eliot A Story

Jose KuhnClass o 2011PLS

Old men ought to beexplorers, thought one as he

ventured out the door intothe grey London street, oncecobblestoned, now paved.History always gets paved over,but Eliot was conscious o the

cobblestones buried beneath hiseet; his ootsteps sent vibrations

down to them, which they sentback up, slightly altered. Hereceived these intimations o thepast into his head and churnedthem about as he walked, eyesdowncast and brow urrowed,trying to apply words to theshadow-pattern shapeshi tingthrough his mind. He lookedup or one second and noticedthe day was overcast, or maybeit was just the twilight. A black cat itted across the sidewalk in ront o him, disappearingbehind some rubbish bins.

Te street lamp sputtered, thestreet lamp mutteredyes,

the street lamp was talking tohim! He, Eliot, twenty yearso age, his grey hair combedneatly so that no one wouldever suspecthe was secretly training to become a prophet.

Waitthat man there, theone with the brie case, smellsdusty, like he stepped right outo Ezekiel. A terri ying vision

suddenly ashed be ore Eliot o a brown scar o earth, the driedhusk o the T ames, windingunder London Bridge, and themillion umbrellas o Londonopen on the bridge, waiting ora drop o rain, but none cameand they were all just blownaway, along with everyones

top-hats. And then they all just stood around, lookingdumb ounded and glum.

As he progressed downBloomsbury Way, the prophet

ngered the lapel o his green jacket. Green, on the one side,but red on the other; he wassure people could see it, theblood rom his bullet wound,

soaking through the abric o his le t shoulder, the blood o the Lamb. It was on his ace,too; he could eel it, warm andsticky, although he could also

eel plants growing there, grassand clover; these spread downacross his jacket, which was,a ter all, a lively spring green.His visage hadnt always been

so springy, so sanguine; back in the days o straw men, livingin limbo, he had powdered his

ace a pale green and stalkedthrough the streets like a livingdisease. It was his need, then,and his burden, to questioneverything, even asking who he

was. Tomas, he ound, or the

dubious Apostle; Stearns or hisbrooding countenance, drivingall easy companionship away.But he was also an Eliot, withroots dug down into the earth o East Coker. Both o these aces

were his, and only the vertexo the two could point himon toward the horizon. Yes, ithad taken him a long time and

much searching, many in ernalnights, to nd that there areonly two ways: the way up andthe way down. And the only

way upis the way down. Andthe only way out is the way in.

Tere are only two ways, wo-Face Eliot repeated tohimsel as a mantra while hepassed a church, St. Peters

or St. Pauls. As a boy, in a white-washed room with low ceiling and wooden benches,he had eaten bread, and underhigh stone vaults trimmed withgold ourishes, he had eaten theLord. He remembered shingin the mud o the Mississippiand oraging or crabs on the

coast o Massachusetts. Tesea-breeze wa ted into hisnostrils as he played amongthe rocks, Mother watchinghim closely because o his weak legs. Dear Mother, where isshe now? He owed so muchto herhis education, hisappreciation or letters, hisdesire to know God. And later,


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when he had read Pascal, hehad thought back on her, hersimple acceptance o miracles,and realized she had been right.So the end o all his learning

was to arrive at his summerhome back in Gloucester, back

where he had started, and toknow it or the rst time.V

A Girl without a Country An Essay

Maria SantosClass o 2011PLS

Its Salsa Night at Legends.Ive never been be ore, butmy riend Kelly promisedthat she knows some guys

who are great dancers. She was right. My dance partner,one o her riends, guides me

e ortlessly across the oor.He twirls me around, his

movements smooth and uid.He is sure and grace ul, poiseincarnate. I trip, mid-twirl,and step on his oot. Again.

He gives up a ter a ew minutes. Teres no hope o teaching me to dance. Hes onein a long line o ailed instruc-tors, including my mother,all my high school riends,and several ex-boy riends.

I stand by the wall lookingor Kelly, who is nowhere to

be seen. Silently, I rea rm my vow, broken again, to avoiddancing at all costs. Kelly

utters over at last, breathless

with excitement. It takes meten minutes to coax her toleave. We scurry through thecold night, relaxing at lastin her Walsh Hall room.

Im so jealous o yourCuban genes, Kelly giggles.She is still thinking o thedashing boys who asked herto dance. How much better

my salsa would be! And my tango and merengue, too.\I begin to point out, Being

Cuban doesnt make you a gooddancer, as I am living proo ,but I stop mysel . Tere is nopoint in arguing. I learnedthat at a high school dancethree years ago, when my date

actually got mad at me or my admittedly clumsy dancing.

You have to actually move your hips, he lectured withmounting rustration. Finally,he burst out, Come on, youreCuban! Tis is in your blood!

Is there a gene or dancing?I there is, why am I apparently the only Cuban who it skipped?


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* * *What does it mean to be

Cuban? What qualities, physicalor intangible, am I lacking?However you de ne Cuban,I dont t the description. My parents used to be Cuban.Now they live in Chicago. In

act, with my light brown hairand pale skin, Midwestern

accent, and Fighting Irishpride, Im a better t orSouth Side Irish mysel .

My grandparents used totease me or my gringa accent

when I spoke Spanish. Now they pretend not to notice that Ibarely speak Spanish anymore,only throwing in the rare

muchas gracias or te quiero.I sued to live in Miami, whereeveryone spoke Spanish. Now,my amily doesnt even speak Spanish at home. My ew Spanish phrases are a nal ploy to prove to my grandparents,and really to mysel , that Iam somehow still Cuban.

In one sense, nothing can

change me rom being Cuban.Cuban blood ows in my

veins- whatever that means.But in actions and appearance,Im as American as the Fourtho July Parade, as whiteas Te Preppy Handbook.

I hate that choice Ive hadto make again and again,between being white and

being Hispanic. I rstnoticed it when I started takingstandardized tests. Tey ask

you to Choose one in theRace category. I eel like a liar

when I ll in the Hispanicbubble. I always do anyway. Itsa statement, a protest o one.

And o course, I hoped it would

help me get into better schools.Te thought behind that

hope was the worst o it, actu-ally- when people assumed thatI got into Notre Dame becauseI am Hispanic. It makes my dad

urious that people think that.Is there a school where you

get a rmative action or beingrude? he exploded once, when

a riends mom said that my race must have really helpedin my college applications. My dad went to Harvard and thento Columbia Medical School,and my mom holds a Ph.D, sothey are convinced that it wasmy naturally inherited ability and not my race that earnedme a spot at Notre Dame. I

try to believe that my parentsare right, but I know my highschool grades were no betterthan those o my riends who

werent admitted here.Am I a raud? I wonder,

sometimes, i Notre Dameonly let me in to boost theirreputation or diversity. I was

a poor choice, i thats thecase. I dont look Hispanicand I have no interest in any o the multicultural studentagendas they like to publicize.

Be ore I decided to comehere, Notre Dame invited meto spend a weekend at NotreDame, an event or prospectiveminority students. I never

even replied to the invitation. Te event scared me, partly because I knew I wouldnt t in.I could picture it in my head:random white girl who cantspeak Spanish surrounded by students imported direct romPuerto Rico. I was a raid o

eeling out o place, but I wasmore a raid that I would be

exposed as a ake. One look at my pale ace, my thin hair,and my hopelessly butcheredSpanish, and they would neverbelieve that Im Cuban.

* * *I cant prove that Im Cuban,

Ive realized. Examine my blood. est my genes. Youll

nd no special evidence. Tat is what makes me lie,

telling anyone who asks thatIm uent in Spanish. Tatis why I make a big show o camaraderie whenever I meetanother Hispanic. Its why Isay silly meaningless thingslike Americans dont know how to show emotion or


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Cubans have a much bettersense o style. I am clingingto an identity o which I amalmost completely ignorant.

My racial identity crisis hasonly grown worse since I got tocollege. Here at Notre Dame,Im awash in a sea o All-

American varsity, polo shirts,and Ugg boots. My riends

who attend Northwestern joke, when they visit, that my school looks like a live J. Crew Catalogue. I o ten dress andlook like a prep mysel . WhenI tell people that Im Cuban, at

rst, they never believe me.* * *

What do you become when

your nationality is just a label?Im not the immigrant rom theOld Country who mourns herchildrens detachment to theirheritage. Im those childrenschild, and I do not know whatmy heritage is. I dont evenknow i it exists. A ter all, theCuba o my grandparents wasnot the Communist Cuba o

today. Miami, that haven o re ugee Cubans, is an interna-tional city which is much more

American than the die-hardCuban abuelos like to admit.

Te Cuba I try to identi y withmay exist only in the minds o my grandparents generation.

Still, I cannot stop searching.I have always been de ned, atleast in part, by my Cuban-ness.I was the only Hispanic girlin my elementary school class.I taught the other girls nursery rhymes and playground gamesin Spanish, passed down rommy mother. I ell asleep mostnights o my childhood to my mother singing Spanish lul-

labies. My dad says a blessingin Spanish whenever my riendscome over or dinner, perhapshis own small way o assertingthat he is still Cuban. I usedto play a game with my sisterscalled Escaping rom Cuba,based on my grandparents

ascinating stories o eeingCastros Communist regime.

On Christmas Eve, my amily eats a traditional Cuban mealand holds a parade throughthe house with images o theNativity, a Cuban custom.Ideas and images o Cuba,sometimes garbled, dominatedmy childhood, and continueto arrest me at amily events.

Tat part o my identity is stilltoo present to be abandoned.

* * *Last summer, my boy riend

brought me to his annual amily reunion or the rst time. Hisrelatives interrogated me.What does Cuban

ood taste like?How do you eel about

the United States relation-ship with Cuba?Do you pre er to becalled Cuban-American orHispanic? Are you o endedby the term Latina?

Tey had never met aCuban be ore. Tey wereso kind, so genuinely inter-ested- and I was so ignorant.

I was de ned, again, by anidentity I dont recognize or

eel. I elt like an ambassadorsent to represent a country Ihad never visited. Perhaps I

will always eel that way.Race is a tricky thing to

de ne. Morgan Freeman askedthat he no longer be calledblack, believing that the best

way to end racism is to stoptalking about it. On surveys andcensus reports, my dad re usesto choose between Hispanicand White. Instead, he checksOther and writes in Human.

I will never learn to Salsa,and my Spanish is a long way

rom uent. Yet whatever it

means to be a Cuban, I amone. Tat is the truth behindthe Cuban-American label.I am lucky enough to live in

America, where I am de nedby my talents rather than my ancestry. And I am lucky enough to have an ancestry,still un amiliar to me in many

ways, that nonetheless gives


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me traditions and customsthat are airly unique. Raisedmore American than Cuban,my heritage at times eels like

just a label, a bubble to ll in.Perhaps it is time or me

to burst that bubble, reachout to my ancestry, and makethat identity my own. V

Goodbye A Story

Javier ZubizarretaClass o 2011Film, elevision, Teatre

Te bags were packed. Te rooms were in order. Tesuits were pressed and theshoes polished. Everythingand everyone had long beenprepared or the twenty- th o

April. We were ready, set, go.

Father John would be there with us. His sour-lipped,screwed-tight ace would takea break rom supervising horny undergrads to provide the muchneeded support. He instructedus on the etiquette: Dont allto pieces, dont say you know how theyre eeling, just say

your peace and move along. Hemade a crack at my black-on-black-on-black suit, shirt, tie.How tting a priest saying

you wear too much black. I justassumed the color appropri-ate, but then we were o .

* * *At a truck stop hal way

between nothing and more

nothing South Bend andCleveland respectively webought candy. We bought sodas.

We bought milkshakes. Webought ice cream. We boughtthe accoutrements we eltnecessary or a road trip. Wesnickered at the mullet hair-dosand joked about the guidesto Amish country. We weregiddy. Te iPod was DJ as theroad spun a party on past. Weguessed the drivers in upcomingcars perhaps a single, blonde

white lady age 35, perhaps ahusky, balding Asian man aged60, and so on. We moved on toguessing zodiac signs and whenI announced Cancer! the car

ell quiet and I elt stupid.* * *

We were in the parking lot.Father John met us there. A

white sedan pulled up and outstepped a pair o zebra-printstilettos with a 16-year-oldattached. Make-up caked andbra doing wonders, we didour best to look away no,


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to look aloo . A devilish grinslipped out o Father John,Hmph. Didnt realize we

were in the red light district.God it was hilarious, thisnew memory we wereso spoiled to make.

* * *St. Patricks Day. Freshman

year. Hair was growing back

and alcohol was no longer o limits. Celebrations were inorder. A ter the obligatory Guinness and ddle music,Captain Morgan and a blister-ing Salsa lled the room.Girls were dancing, we werered in the ace, and withinan hour I was o ering my

shirt up or singles.* * *

We stilted through a mile-longline o terribly polite and ter-ribly condolent Midwestern

olk in blazers and cardigans.Between the litany o owerarrangements and warm a -ternoon sun, the building

was terribly and irrevocably

pleasant. We shared anecdotes with the Midwestern olk about our ootball team.

And so we came into themain hall and there he was, laidout in his suit and apparently taking a nap as well-wishersstreamed past. Tere was noexclamation point, no questionmark, just a simple period.

Tere he was. Tere we were. Tere were his parents. It was as per ectly arranged asthe red and white carnationssurrounding his co n.

Te surprise and exclama-tion came when we turned toour le t and saw a display o photographs, rom his birth

through elementary schooland on to his college days.

And there in plain sight oramily, riends, and seemingly

the whole o Cleveland, wasmy drunk ass parading around

with a our-lea clover necktie. And Father John, whose job it was to prevent such libatiousrevelry, was standing behind me

smirking to the high heavens.Hmph. Didnt know youcould move like that. And so

we laughed. We laughed! Welaughed with such nerve weshould have been ashamed.

* * *His ather tried to hide it,

but his mother acted upon it,making sure each detail wasin order, that my bed on thecouch was com ortable, that the

ried shrimp was to my liking. You could see it though, thatinhumane burden laid uponthem. Tey had gone across theriver Styx, witnessed the bloodand bile poured out, the poisonand radiation injected in, they

knew what it was to su er. Yetnow was Easter and the riend

rom college was coming to visitand the pain was assuredly over.

We were preparing orbrunch. Matthew was still inthe bathroom and I was waitingin the bedroom. Mr. Molloy entered. It wasnt or lack o sleep the night be ore but he

looked tired. He spoke earnestly to me, grate ully. I just want tothank you or coming out. Oh,it was nothing and thank you

or having me. It just meansso much to know Matthew hassuch good riends. Perhaps Iblushed. Tese past two yearshave been so di cult or Mrs.Molloy and I, its just nice toknow And then Matthew entered the room. We wereboth embarrassed. Matthew that I should learn o any

weakness, me that I shouldbe considered a good riend.

* * *Perhaps they hadnt su ered

enough, perhaps watching

tumors devour your sons brain wasnt enough to justi y theirgrie , but there they stoodnext to his co n. Each well-

wisher was greeted warmly, aquiet thank you, an occasionalembrace, perhaps even a chuckleat some shared memory. Teirsti -upper lip decorum o -

ered an empty assurance. I


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told mysel they were okay, we were okay, I was okay.

But then they saw us.Mr. Molloy crumbled rst.His ace ell to the oor and

ooded with tears. I umbledin my mind as this grownman wrapped his arms aroundme and cried buckets on my shoulder. Te words, It was

an honor to know your son,stumbled out oolishly. We were herded orward,

knelt be ore him, and perhapsI said a prayer. Nick and

John and Jacques were to my le t shaking as heavy tears

ell down their ruddy cheeks. Tis was death. Not a gold sh,

not a border-collie, not agreat-grandma, but a riend,a peer, a child like ourselves.

We werent prepared. Wehadnt even brought Kleenex.

And dammit all to hell butI couldnt cry. Not a single tear

would come out. I would gladly have poked mysel in the eye

or one purpose ul drop. All

I could do was hold on to my riends as they bawled ero-

ciously and gravity gave way.* * *

We played a movie triviagame that night. In competi-tion with his riends romhigh school we shouted outthe answers Kevin Spacey!Revenge o the Nerds! oto!

As the game neared its climaxI surveyed the room and re-minded mysel that the personconnecting this odd collectiono strangers was awaiting hisburial. It would have beenan appropriate moment to

eel remorse, but no. Justanother statement. No tears.

I stepped outside with hisriend Sara a slender girl

with ivory hair and sat onthe back bumper o somebodystruck. Te stars were out.She gave me a bracelet thatread Cancer Sucks sopeople remember that li eis still great, she told me.

Ive lived across the street

rom him my whole li e, whenever his light was on Iknew he was still up and wecould talk. And god Id talk tohim. He coached me throughevery boy riend. He hated allo them. Hated them. And

you know how he is, i hereally didnt like the guy he

wouldnt talk to me or weeks.We both smiled at this. I put

my head down and watched asSara swung her eet in the air.

When he graduated wenally admitted we liked

each other, but we decided we wouldnt start dating untilhe nished chemo.

And now hes

dead, I thought.She didnt know what she

was going to do without himand I didnt know what to say so we just sat there and watchedthe stars or a while longer.

* * *I was in bed. Te Ferry

amily it was our rst timemeeting them had opened

up their home to us. Te Ferry children were sent elsewhereso the boys rom Notre Dame

would have a place to sleep. I was in one o the girls roomand staring up at the daisy-print

walls I elt nothing. I wasntnumb. Numb comes a ter you

eel pain. No, I was simply laying there growing more andmore rustrated with mysel

or gods sake your riend justdied! Cry a little! Something!

I considered whether I evenliked Matthew, whether I waseven his riend. I thought back to any grievance we commit-ted to each other he onceasked me to attend a special

Mass or a allen riend andI eigned sick, wanting a ew more hours in bed. He onceinsulted my writing. I would

welcome any excuse or my apathy, but instead just elt

urther like an asshole.I ipped through the grieving

stages. I tried on anger, triedto get mad at him, at God, at


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the world but it just elt silly. Itried on depression too, I thoughtabout seeing his body in the co nand his parents and my crying

riends, but when nothing hap-pened it just reminded me o how aw ul I must be. I called homebut Everyone grieves di erently

wasnt a satis ying answer. A ter a while I just

went to sleep.* * *

Te Mass was lovely. Techoirboys gave an achingrendition o Ave Maria as they

wheeled in the co n. Father John gave a touching homily. We all shared in Communionand sel shly, I could only worry

over how I wasnt eeling.His mother and ather placedthe white cloth over his co nand the presiding priest mademention that like baptism, rstcommunion, and con rmation,death was another rite o initia-tion, that it was another step inli e. Te bagpipes began theirmoaning dirge and nally I cried.

Perhaps or Matthew, perhapsor his amily, but mostly I

cried or li e. Tat li e wasormaldehyde in an oak co n.

Tat li e ended so horribly. Tatli e ended at all. We walked

rom the church and into a worldbursting o springtime petalsand blooms that would all and

ade and die. I thought o my parents, that they looked olderthan I remembered. Tat they

would die. Tat I would die. And because we are gluttonsor punishment, we had to bury

him in the ground. And becauseit couldnt get any worse, it startedto rain. We huddled about thegravesite beneath a canopy o

collective umbrellas and watchedas the ceremony continued, as theMolloys were orced to say good-bye. I swear I heard his mothersay, Its okay, Matthew, well beright here, but she was too araway or that to be possible. A gapappeared in the umbrellas aboveme and rain was dripping on my suit. A woman in her eighties

with lines scouring her aceturned and said, Oh, youregetting wet. I pushed throughthe bodies in black and hidmy ace in the cars back seat.

* * *Tere was a reception

later. It was hosted at St.Bernadettes Elementary School. As we munched oncookies and elt guilty oreach bite we got to take,Sara came over. She knew

we were leaving soon and wanted to o er her arewell.In the ar corner o the roomI saw his sister, Ashley.

Te pre-teen was wearing abright dress o purple and

green. She was laughing with the girls around her.I asked Sara how

Ashley was doing.I talked to her yesterday

and shes doing really well.She just told me, you know,

we had almost thirteen years together and they weregreat. Nothing can take that

away not even the cancer.She looks like shes

doing really well.She is. Shes a smart girl.We told everyone

goodbye, an incongruous word with no real mean-ing, but a ter learning o

arewells, we meant it.V

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